


Kiss the Girls and Make Them Die

by inkspottedtea



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Draco Malfoy, Auror Harry Potter, Auror Partners, Aurors, Black Hermione Granger, Case Fic, Detectives, F/M, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, HP: EWE, I pick and choose from the Epilogue, Inspired by Law & Order (TV), Lawyer Hermione Granger, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Police Procedural, Post Hogwarts AU, Post-War, implied sexual violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-10-18 22:43:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10626663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkspottedtea/pseuds/inkspottedtea
Summary: A witch named Patricia Bartlett is found cursed in her Upper Cheshire Alley flat. Detective Inspector Aurors Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter are on the case.





	1. Patricia Bartlett

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic inspired by the original Law & Order series. This particular story is based off S1E4: "Kiss the Girls and Make Them Die." No copyright infringement is intended! I don't own anything, I just wanted to play around with Harry and Draco as Detective Aurors. Thank you, and I hope you enjoy it!

~*~

The atrium at St Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was chaotic, but it was the normal kind of chaos, so it did not alarm Harry in the slightest. He felt a hand on his elbow, and just managed to stop himself from ploughing right into a woman herding her child across the busy room. The child was holding its ears, which were overly large and looked as if they were getting larger still.

“Mum, it hurts!” the child was saying, distressed. “It’s too loud!”

The mother began to fuss, her long black hair swinging between them as she bent down to hold her own hands over the child’s ears too.

“Here –” Harry said, pushing through the crowd toward them, drawing his wand. He pressed it to the lapel of his robe, revealing the Auror badge that had been camouflaged there.

The woman looked up at his approach, confusion on her features.

“Here,” Harry said again, bending down. “I’m an Auror,” he said softly, turning to the child. “Is it too noisy in here?”

The child nodded, staring at the floor as if it were trying to block out all the commotion through sheer force of will.

“ _Muffilatus_ ,” said a voice from behind them, causing Harry to smile softly.

The child let out a very audible sigh, slumping into its mother’s arms. The room seemed to dull as the immediate area was filled with a soft buzzing which blocked out all other sounds.

“Is that better?” Harry asked, standing. He looked over at his partner in thanks, a grin still on his face.

Draco Malfoy nodded at him, tucking his wand back up his sleeve. Harry noticed the child’s mother glance between their badges and their faces before standing up as well, keeping a hand on her child’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Aurors,” she said, tentatively smiling at them. “What charm is that?”

“It is a variation on an Auror Muffling Charm –” Malfoy started to explain.

“By George!” the child suddenly shouted, having looked up from the ground. “You’re Harry Potter! Mum, it’s _Harry Potter_!”

The woman looked distinctly embarrassed.

“Aldie, love, they are Aurors, on duty. Do not bother them, please.”

“But, Mum!”

She turned to look down at her child, but was interrupted by a man coming up to them.

“They’ve got a room for us, I told them about the noise – eh? What’s this?” The man spun away from his wife, turning to look at the ceiling as if it were the source of the muffling buzz. He caught sight of Harry and Malfoy and jumped slightly, clearly not having noticed them. Then his mouth dropped open. “By George! It’s Harry Potter!”

His wife barked out something quite stern in another language, which caused him to stand up straight, sobering.

“My wife is quite right. I apologise, Aurors. Thank you very much for your assistance with my son.”

“You are welcome,” Malfoy responded, before turning to the woman. “The Charm is cancelled with the General Counter-Spell, but I recommend waiting until you are in a quiet room.”

“Thank you,” the woman said, bowing her head at them. Her husband followed suit.

“Feel better soon,” Harry told the boy, waving as they left the family.

When they were out of the purview of the Charm, Malfoy started chuckling.

“Saint Potter,” he said, amusement all over his face. “And his hordes of children.”

“What are you on about?”

“That’s another one named after you,” Malfoy said, still laughing. “It’s on his knapsack.”

“What? No,” Harry turned around, just managing to catch a glimpse of the family as they were led away by a Healer. Sure enough, on the boy’s backpack was his name – ‘Harald’ in felt stitching. “I’m not sure that counts.”

Malfoy shook his head and pushed forward through the crowd, making his way over to the Information Desk.

“Detective Inspector Aurors Malfoy and Potter,” Malfoy told the wizard on duty, reaching a hand up to tap his Auror badge. Harry moved to stand next to Malfoy, so the receptionist could see his badge also. “We are here about a Patricia Bartlett.”

The receptionist nodded, glancing down at a scroll on the circular desk in front of him before opening a drawer and pulling out two blank name-tags. He waved his own wand and handed them to the Detective Aurors. “She’s on the fourth floor, room 131. Healer Ahmed is attending her.”

“Thanks,” Harry answered, taking the now inscribed tags from him. He pinned one underneath his badge then reached over to do the same for Malfoy.

“I have heard that Ahmed also works in Janus Thickey,” Malfoy said to Harry as they were walking away.

Harry watched as Malfoy angled himself slightly toward the uniformed Aurors guarding the entrance to the Accident and Emergency Services, so they could see his identification as he and Harry passed into the elevators on either side of the A&E doors.

“Hmm,” Harry responded, frowning. He slipped his wand back into his sleeve holster and reached out to push the call button before Malfoy could. “That doesn’t bode well.”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow at him, the corner of his mouth ticking up slightly before falling into a similar frown.

“No,” he answered. “I was rather hoping we might get a simple case for a change, but if they think she is bound for Thickey …”

The silence hung between them as the elevator took them to the fourth floor.

Harry took the lead when they arrived, walking swiftly down the corridor to room 131. They found Healer Ahmed inside, standing at the foot of one of the beds staring at the young woman occupying it. She was, like the other healers at St Mungo’s, wearing lime green robes, but she also had on a white apron which covered her almost to her neck. She’d obviously just finished performing surgery on the patient. Her hair was fully grey, and it was cropped close to her head, some loose strands tucked behind her ears.

“Healer Ahmed?” Malfoy spoke, coming round to stand at the side of the bed, “DIAs Malfoy and Potter. Is this Patricia Bartlett?”

The healer turned to them slowly, as if coming out of a daze, and Harry moved to Malfoy’s elbow. He could tell that the Healer was very troubled.

“Yes, I’m Fathima Ahmed. And yes,” she looked back down at her patient, bending to pick up a chart attached to the footboard of the bed. “This is Patricia Bartlett. She came in this morning around four, and she’s finally stable.” She sighed and looked down at the chart, “Ms Bartlett now has a tracheostomy charm helping her breathe. I have reversed the internal bleeding and damage, but she has not shown any signs of waking up.”

A nurse in a light green robe came up to her, calling for her help. Healer Ahmed apologized and handed Bartlett’s chart to Harry before turning her attention elsewhere. Harry flipped through the pages briefly then handed the chart over to Malfoy, reaching into one of the pockets of his dark over-robe and taking out a small Muggle notebook and pen. He walked around to the other side of the bed and began to take notes on Patricia Bartlett’s appearance.

The woman looked terrible. She appeared to be younger than them, but he couldn’t tell by how much. She was very pale and drawn, and her lips were faintly, alarmingly, blue. She had deep bruises on her neck around where he could see the hole from the trach charm, and her fingers were bruised with what Harry could tell were defensive wounds. He peered at her hands.

“Tell me a kit was run before she went to an O.R.?”

“Yes,” Malfoy assured him, still reading through the file. “Patricia Bartlett, 27-years-old, brought in with acute magical trauma centered on her chest and throat. There are also signs of physical trauma around her neck and hands. Magical and physical …” Malfoy paused, looking up to catch Harry’s eye, “Wandless magic?”

Harry arched an eyebrow at him in response, “That’d be great for us, wouldn’t it?”

Malfoy scoffed quietly before continuing to read, “They also did a rape kit. It has been sent to our lab. Remind me to grab an owl before we go, I want to make sure Jefferson knows this is our case.”

Harry nodded and stood up, closing his notebook. “Where to next?”

“Her flat, I should think.” Malfoy flipped back to the top sheet of the file, “‘Cheshire Alley’, thought as much. The Bartletts are purebloods. Stayed out of the war, though, Merlin knows how, but I am pretty sure she was in Slytherin.” He floated the chart back to its place on the footboard and exited the room.

“I’m following you,” Harry replied, casting one more look at the small figure in the bed as they left the ward.

~*~

As it was raining, they took the bus from Old Bond Street to Cambridge Circus, then made their way down to the Leaky Cauldron. Harry pulled out his umbrella as soon as he was off the bus, crowding close to his partner as Malfoy sent off some discreet Impervious and Warming Charms.

“Bloody rain, eh?” Harry laughed, while Malfoy scowled at him, the sky, the people they passed, and at Harry’s bright red umbrella.

“Bloody _February_ ,” was his only response.

The Leaky was crowded, it was nearing noon at this point, and they had to shove a few shoulders to make it to the back. Their badges were camouflaged again, not that it would matter much, since Malfoy was bundled up in a great big fuzzy scarf which hung not only down his chest, but also artfully over one shoulder. Harry had the collar of his robes open. Malfoy was very good at warming charms.

Once inside Diagon Alley, they turned right, avoiding the high street and instead going down to Cheshire Alley, the Wizarding housing district. Mostly, the shopkeepers who did not want to live above their stores, but still wanted to be close by, had small brownstones lining this back alley. Further down, winding up towards Soho to the west, Cheshire Alley became very expensive-looking, and it was one of these buildings which housed Patricia Bartlett’s flat.

They did not immediately go to hers, instead opting to see if they could question the neighbor who called St Mungo’s about the emergency. They knocked on 314 and revealed their badges, waiting.

Presently, the door opened a fraction and they heard a feminine voice say, “Oh!” before it shut again.

Then it opened wider and it was Harry’s turn to go, “Oh! Hello, Vicky, didn’t know you lived up this way?”

“Hi, Harry,” the blonde woman smiled warmly at him, flicking her eyes to the side to encompass Malfoy. “Want to come in for a cuppa? You’re here on official business – Patty, yes?”

She moved aside and gestured for them to come in, still smiling kindly. She shut the door after Malfoy and pointed to her small parlour.

“Just have a seat and I’ll get the tea things. Horrible business. I owled Eliza straight after I firecalled the hospital, got a response earlier saying you’d be dropping by.”

“DIA Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy said when she joined them again, perching delicately on the red velvet settee. He smiled coyly at her, holding his hand out to accept the refreshments she was offering, “I do not think we have been formally introduced.”

The woman grinned at him and flicked her wand in his direction, sending a teacup into his waiting palm. “Victoria Frobisher, at your service. I was in Gryffindor a year below you both. Milk? Sugar?” Malfoy nodded for each and Vicky served him, already having done up Harry’s cup the way he liked.

Harry cleared his throat, “Do you know the victim well?”

“Yes, I know Patty. She’s the same year as my other sister, Kitty, though different houses, you know. She was already here when I moved in three years ago, I think her parents bought it for her. Poor girl, she looked just terrible when I found her! Is she going to be alright?”

“It’s touch and go at the moment,” Harry replied, reaching out for a biscuit Vicky had placed on the coffee table. Only a few, or he’d spoil his lunch. He thought Malfoy might be willing to actually sit down somewhere, maybe wait out the rain a bit. “How did you know something was wrong?”

“Well, it was around 3 in the morning, we’d been at the pub after practice, you know. And I probably shouldn’t’ve, but I’d Apparated to the spot downstairs, and took the elevator up – didn’t want to wait for the Floo, I needed the toilet, you know. And I was fumbling with the key, and the wards for my flat, when the Sneakoscope in my bag went off. Well, that sobered me right up! I took it out and noticed it was louder across the hall towards Patty’s flat, then I noticed her door was ajar so I went in …” She sighed, pausing to drink her tea. “She was lying on the bed when I found her, half under the duvet. She was twitching, her eyes were open,” she shuddered, placing her cup down on the coffee table with a soft click. “The damn Scope was going mental, as if I didn’t know by then it was all wrong, so I ran to her Floo and called St Mungo’s.”

Malfoy cleared his throat softly, “Did you see anything out of place, other than the door?”

Vicky shook her head. “I’m not really that familiar with her flat, so I can’t be sure … Her mum might know better, I know she’s over there a lot.”

“That is good to know, thank you.” Malfoy stood up, reaching into his robes and pulling out a specialised piece of parchment and some ink. “If we could trouble you for your fingerprints, Miss Frobisher, for when we search Miss Bartlett’s flat.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, really!” She perked back up, her wane smile warming. Malfoy took out his wand and spelled the ink and parchment to hover in front of them. He then helped her through pressing each of her fingers to the appropriate places.

“There we are. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” Vicky dimpled at Malfoy as he sat back down. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

Malfoy shook his head in return, “No, you were lovely, Miss Frobisher, really.” He grinned at her and, unsurprisingly, she grinned back. Malfoy could have that effect on people when he tried. Harry put his teacup down on the coffee table.

“Thanks for the tea, Vicky. We’d better get going.”

“Of course, of course. Good luck and all that. I hope you catch the bastard!”

Malfoy bowed at her as they left, and Harry practically hauled him out the door.

“Bartlett’s in number 17,” he said, still holding Malfoy by the elbow.

“Lucky she had the Sneakoscope with her. One of yours, I suspect?”

“She’s friends with Ginny, if that’s what you mean.”

“Ah, quite.” Malfoy smiled wryly at him, but didn’t say anything further on the subject.

They got to work securing the crime scene, placing the standard wards on the door to allow no one but those working the case to enter, monitoring charms, etc, as well as a warning that this was an active Auror location. They began to sweep the flat with their spells, finding that the concentration of dark magic was confined to the bedroom where Vicky had found Bartlett.

They didn’t find any analogous fingerprints in the flat, and none of Bartlett’s things looked conspicuously out of place – nothing obviously knocked over in a struggle or the like. After they tested for fingerprints, Malfoy pulled out, from some pocket, equipment designed to measure and capture personal magical frequencies. As he and Harry were already registered in the machine, all Harry needed to do was take Bartlett’s wand – removed from her bedside table – and cast _Prior Incantato_ so the instrument could acquire a sample of Bartlett’s unique spell residue.

“Ta, Potter, that is sufficient,” Malfoy reached down to tear off a printout from the device. “Good news: We’ve eliminated the magic as self-inflicted. Bad news: There are traces of House Elf magic in this room.”

Harry smirked, “You didn’t know that already?”

Malfoy looked at him sharply, frowning. “And you did?”

“Course,” Harry grinned, motioning back to the small kitchen. “There’s a note on the cupboard there: ‘Pippy – Wednesdays!’ Has to be a House Elf, doesn’t it?”

Malfoy grumped over to the kitchen and used his wand to unstick the note, producing a clear bag from another pocket to store it in.

“This does not look like Bartlett’s handwriting.”

Harry came to stand by his shoulder, looking down at the note, which now looked like it was covered in laminating paper – the bag had shrunk to fit neatly around the small, coloured parchment.

“Hmm,” Malfoy said, still inspecting the note. “In all likelihood, this is from her mother. Didn’t Miss Frobisher say she comes by ‘a lot’? Hopefully ‘Pippy’ is a family elf. Merlin, this better not be why there are no fingerprints …”

Harry made a sound of agreement.

“Shall we take readings from the bedroom, Potter?” Malfoy turned around and Harry was momentarily flustered; they were standing so close. He cleared his throat and stepped away from Malfoy.

“Right, yeah. Late lunch after?”

“We could do that,” Malfoy answered, unruffled. “Then back to the Office. I want to organize this data before we go any further.”

 

When they got back to the Auror Office, Harry was still licking salt from his fingers. Not really because there was any left from his chips, more because it annoyed Malfoy when he did so.

“Would you stop it,” hissed Malfoy, proving Harry’s point. “It’s obscene.”

Harry sucked his thumb at Malfoy and laughed at the over-exaggerated face his partner pulled in response.

They shuffled over to their desks, Malfoy pulling away from Harry and just about throwing himself on top of Parkinson’s desk when he noticed she was lounging in her chair. She was looking down at her fingernails, leaning back in a way that had to be aided by magic, judging by how far her chair was tilted. Her glasses were pushed off her face up into her curls. Harry had never known she had curly hair – a bit like Hermione’s – until she’d stopped using potions on it sometime after they’d become Aurors. It was still short, but all the bounce made it curl attractively around her face. It was, in Harry’s opinion, a marked improvement from the rather severely cut length, right to her chin, she had worn when they were at Hogwarts. Malfoy fairly crooned as he spoke to her, making Harry frown and throw himself roughly into his own chair, fishing out his notebook.

“Pansy, _darling_ , I thought you were due in court this afternoon?”

“I was, Draco, but Clearwater had to switch with Blaise at the last, so Ali went alone.”

He heard Draco murmur his understanding, and they fell into conversation. Even though he and Harry were supposed to be working on the data for their case.

Parkinson was married to Zabini now, though she didn’t take his name – for reasons Harry had only asked once, and then promptly regretted, because she started off on a speech he was dead sure Hermione had spouted off to him once. All about women’s rights, which he agreed with, sure, but she certainly didn’t need to yell at him over the whole thing. Nevertheless, she was Parkinson, not Zabini, and she was _supposed_ to have been in court this afternoon, but obviously she could not testify when her husband was prosecuting the same case.

Harry tuned them out and reached down into a bottom drawer in his desk and lugged out his Ministry issue typewriter, determined to type up his notes for their case-file.

Since he wasn’t the fastest typist – even though typewriters were one of the first reforms that went through the Ministry over ten years ago – it was hours before he finished typing up his notes and some of the necessary paperwork for the case. He had just stood up and cast a severing charm, lifting away the finished parchment, when he felt eyes on him. He turned minutely to his right, glancing slightly at his partner’s desk.

“Need something, Malfoy?”

He heard a low laugh next to him and he resolutely turned away to finish his work. He made three copies of the scroll – one for his folder, one for Malfoy’s, and one for the Archives – and sent one of them whisking away to the tube on the wall behind them. He left his copy in the bin on his desk, holding the one he’d made for Malfoy in his hands.

“No, I don’t _need_ anything, Potter.”

Harry turned fully then, reaching out to hand the scroll to his partner.

“Just nice to see you working so hard,” Malfoy said, taking the scroll. “So very diligent.”

Malfoy was sitting at his desk, sprawled just as bad as Parkinson had been, but his outer-robes were off and he was sitting in his shirtsleeves. The gold tie Harry hadn’t known he was wearing was loose, and he’d unbuttoned the gray charcoal-coloured vest to reveal more of the collared shirt he was wearing.

Malfoy had rolled up his sleeves, so Harry could clearly see the faded, red Dark Mark on his left arm, resplendent between bright, multi-colored flowers – Muggle tattoos Harry had gone with him to get five years ago, just when they’d finally been assigned to Major Crimes. It must have been later in the evening than he realized, for Malfoy to look so casual.

“Think I’ll head out,” Harry said, turning back to his desk. “See you tomorrow, Malfoy.”

~*~


	2. The Paramount

~*~

A House Elf was waiting nervously by their desks the next morning, and it wasn’t one Harry recognized.

“Hello,” he said cautiously, transfiguring a paperweight into a small chair. “I am Detective Inspector Auror Harry Potter. Are you here to see me?”

“Yes!” the House Elf squeaked out nervously, and Harry could tell it was a girl. “I is Pippy! I is not be getting into Miss Patty’s flat this morning, so Mistress is telling Pippy to go see the Aurors!” Pippy had seated herself gingerly on the small chair and was now clutching her hands close to her face, wrinkling the name-tag that was strung around her neck.

“You are not in any trouble, Pippy,” Harry said hastily. “Uhm, your mistress is?” He paused, casting a glance back at his desk and over his shoulder, where Malfoy was watching.

“Frances Bartlett,” Malfoy supplied.

“Yes!” Pippy gasped, nodding. “I is a House Elf with the Bartlett family. I is to be cleaning Miss Patty’s flat every Wednesday since she moved out of the family house. I is never missing!”

“Of course not,” Malfoy broke in smoothly, coming to lean against Harry’s desk. “No one is suggesting you have not done your job, Pippy. It was good of you to come here; you can be very helpful to us.”

“Pippy is wanting to be helpful! Mistress is telling Pippy that Miss Patty is in hospital and Pippy cannot clean her flat. That instead Pippy must go and talk with the Aurors.”

“Well, great,” Harry replied, turning away from Pippy to smile up at Malfoy. His partner took the hint and moved off the desk.

“Pippy, DIA Potter is going to ask you some questions now. Thank you again for coming to see us.”

With that, he moved away toward what Harry knew would be the break room and the coffeemaker. And, Parkinson, probably. Harry took off his outer-robe and made himself comfortable, setting up a dictation quill and getting out his Muggle notebook.

“Alright, Pippy. When was the last time you were at Patricia Bartlett’s flat?”

“Pippy was at Miss Patty’s flat last week. Pippy was supposed to be at Miss Patty’s flat this morning, but the wards would not let Pippy pass through them.” Harry nodded – they had changed them yesterday.

“You only ever go to Miss Bartlett’s flat on Wednesdays?” Pippy nodded. “Ah, you have to say your answer out loud,” Harry gestured to the quill.

Pippy’s eyes widened, “Oh, yes, Mister DIA Potter, sir! Pippy only ever goes to Miss Patty’s flat on Wednesdays. Pippy would come if Miss Patty called, of course, but Miss Patty never calls for Pippy since she is being an adult and moving out of the family house.” She looked a little sad at this statement and Harry rushed forward with his questions.

“Miss Bartlett did not call for you on the night of Monday, 20 February 2012, or early Tuesday morning, 21 February 2012?”

“No, Pippy is not hearing any calls from Miss Patty on any of those days.”

Harry tapped his pen against his lips. “Pippy, would you be able to come with DIA Malfoy and me to Miss Bartlett’s flat and tell us if anything is not where it usually is? Or if anything is missing?”

“Pippy is not knowing, Mister DIA Potter, sir. Mistress is not telling Pippy to go back to Miss Patty’s flat.” She gave a little wobble in her seat and Harry held a hand out placatingly.

“No, it’s fine, Pippy. I will talk with Mrs Bartlett.” He scribbled a note in his notebook, “Pippy, do you happen to know any of Miss Bartlett’s friends? Anyone she is close with, and would talk to, who aren’t Mr and Mrs Bartlett?”

Pippy appeared to think for a moment. Then she nodded, smiling.

“Oh, yes! Miss Patty’s best friend is being Miss Astoria! Though, Pippy is being told that Miss Astoria has been married and she is now Mrs Goyle.”

Harry looked up, a bit startled.

“Patricia Bartlett’s best friend is Astoria Goyle?”

“Yes!” Pippy divulged proudly, “Pippy remembers making lots of sweets for Miss Patty and Miss Astoria when theys were childrens. And sometimes Pippy would be helping Miss Patty and Miss Astoria making shadows during slumber parties. Miss Astoria is ever so nice to Pippy! But since Miss Patty is an adult now, Pippy hasn’t been seeing Miss Astoria for a long time.”

“Well, that’s good to know anyway,” Harry replied, taking down a note and sighing to himself. “I think that’s all I need from you, then. Thanks for coming in, Pippy. You may go home now.”

“Thank you, Mister DIA Potter, sir!” She stood up and bowed to him.

“Would you like me to walk you to the atrium?” Harry asked her.

“No, Pippy is fine, Mister DIA Potter, sir!” She bowed again, wrapping her long fingers around her name-tag. “Pippy knows the way out just fine, sir!”

“Well, goodbye, then. Thank you again.”

The House Elf bowed again and scurried away, dodging around a Detective Auror carrying a large stack of papers. Harry shook his head ruefully, ending the dictation quill. Whenever he had to interact with other House Elves he was reminded just how different his own was. Granted, Kreacher’s temperament was much improved now, he still wasn’t as simpering as some House Elves could be. Harry found he preferred it, even if it drove Malfoy a little batty.

Still holding his notebook, he stood up from his desk and made his way over to the break room. Predictably, Malfoy was huddled around the coffeemaker, gossiping with Parkinson.

“– and they were flatmates!” Malfoy was saying as Harry came in.

“Hey,” Harry cut him off. “You’re not going to believe this.”

Parkinson turned toward Harry, amusement written all over her face. She took a long sip of her coffee, arching an eyebrow at Harry which seemed to imply, ‘Well, get on with it then!’ Harry turned to Malfoy, ignoring her.

“Well, get on with it then!” Malfoy said imperiously, reaching behind him on the counter to grab a second mug. It was filled with coffee and still hot. Harry took it gratefully.

“You aren’t going to believe who Patricia Bartlett’s best friend is, according to Pippy!”

Harry took a sip of coffee. Hazelnut, his favourite, and Malfoy’s warming charms kept it just the right temperature. Both Slytherins were leaning toward him, expectant.

“Astoria. Greengrass.” Harry drawled out slowly, watching their faces morph into some form of surprise.

“No bloody way,” said Parkinson. “Best mates, really? How come we haven’t seen her then? I don’t think I even saw her at the wedding!”

Malfoy turned to look at Parkinson with a frown. “No, no you’re wrong – she was there, I remember now. That yellow dress?”

“Ohhhh,” Parkinson nodded. “Wait, yes. You’re right. Haven’t seen her _recently_ , though. Really, ‘best mates’ is what the elf told you?”

“Yep,” Harry popped the ‘p’ annoyingly, causing Malfoy to look back at him. “That’s what she said,” he waggled his notebook for emphasis. “Best friends since they were children.”

“Huh,” Malfoy said, pushing off the counter and brushing past Harry. “Guess we know where we’re going next, then.”

“Where?” asked Harry, teasingly, trailing after him.

“The Strode, Potter, obviously. Didn’t you just say that?” Malfoy glanced back at him, his eyes dancing as he placed his now empty coffee mug back on his desk. He grabbed his scarf off the back of his chair and headed out of the Office.

“I’m following you!” Harry shouted, transferring his coffee to the travel mug he kept in one of his desk drawers, his outer-robe already slung over his arm. Malfoy raised a hand up to wave at him in response, not stopping his stride for a moment.

~*~

The Goyles had a townhome near Muggle Stroud Green – not too far from Grimmauld Place, a fact which Harry had been surprised to learn the first time Malfoy had dragged him over to visit after their wedding. Goyle getting married was a surprise, honestly, and his wife even more so; but Harry had gotten used to it, in the way he’d gotten used to a lot of things in his life not going the way he’d prejudged they ought, and then he’d forgotten it was ever supposed to be different.

Harry had even had them over at Christmas this year, for a party Malfoy had pressured him to throw, which is where they’d learned that Astoria was pregnant, thanks to Luna. She did not look obviously pregnant even now, though Harry really didn’t know what three-month-pregnant-women looked like to begin with. But Malfoy had grabbed his elbow while they waited in the foyer and told him sternly he wasn’t to gawk.

There was no need – and he wouldn’t do that anyway, Hermione’d taught him better than that – since Astoria looked the same as she ever did: Petite, golden, and smiling in a way that suggested she had a funny secret she wasn’t going to share. In all actuality, she reminded Harry of a tiny Narcissa Malfoy.

When they had all said their hellos and settled down on sofas, Malfoy broached the topic of why they had come.

“We are actually here on official business,” he said calmly, placing his teacup back on its saucer without making a sound.

Both Astoria’s eyebrows went up and Goyle let out a soft noise.

“Oh, _Draco_!” he cried. “You should have said! I’ve been talking for a quarter of an hour!”

Another surprise that wasn’t a surprise anymore was that Goyle was actually quite high-strung. He had compensated for this perceived deficit in school by lowering his voice and speaking very little.

In the end, he had been one of the first to apologize to Harry, aside from Malfoy, and he had only cried a little when he did so, for which Harry was very thankful. When he’d apologized to Hermione, though, his crying had set her off, and that had just been some kind of day, really.

“It’s no matter, Greg,” Malfoy replied. “It is always so wonderful to see the both of you, we all lost track of time.”

Astoria smiled, moving to press a shoulder against her husband’s. “What official business did you come to talk to us about, Draco?”

“Astoria …” here Malfoy paused, and Harry felt his partner turn to look at him.

“We’re here to ask you some questions about Patricia Bartlett,” Harry said. “We’ve been informed that the two of you are good friends?”

Astoria looked surprised, leaning forward to place her cup on the table in front of her soundlessly.

“We were quite close once, yes. Did something happen?”

Goyle reached a hand out and placed it on what Harry supposed must have been his wife’s knee – her robes were quite voluminous.

“She was severely injured Tuesday morning, I’m afraid,” Malfoy responded. “She has been admitted to the Spell Damage Ward at St Mungo’s.”

Astoria pursed her lips together tightly. “I see. What would you like to know?”

Harry put his cup down on the coffee table and brought out his notebook, clicking the top of his pen.

“Was Miss Bartlett seeing anyone, uh, romantically?”

Astoria let out a great sigh and leant back against the plush cushions on the sofa behind her. Goyle looked at her with great concern, but she waved him off before folding both her hands over her stomach, as if holding it.

“Patricia and I were the best of friends at Hogwarts.” She directed her attention to Harry, “You have to understand, growing up as we did – especially our year. The War was over even before it began for us, but everything had changed anyway. What had been comfortable was now suffocating,” here she paused and looked at Malfoy, and then her husband. “Slytherin had become suffocating.”

Malfoy suddenly looked miserable, and Goyle didn’t look much better.

“Many families pulled their children out of Hogwarts – it’s different now, of course. I’m told Slytherin’s numbers have gone back to more of a proper standard. But when we left school, Patricia and I were all that was left of the girls in our year. We were closer than sisters, then.” She smiled ruefully, “There are some things that Patty knows about me that Daphne would be shocked to hear.”

She paused again, staring up over Harry and Malfoy’s heads.

“I’m sure I don’t really have to tell you, but I think you should know – about the suffocation. It was so _much_ , and we were simply expected to go home and _conform_ , as if nothing had happened. No careers, no futures outside what our families expected – as if the War had never happened and no one had _died_ for these failing strictures, placed upon us all by a broken society. That’s how we felt – with the suffocation. That it was hypocrisy, and it should remain in the past.”

“But you didn’t,” Harry broke in. He sent a tentative glance to Goyle and Malfoy, then continued. “I mean, you got married. You’re starting a family. It couldn’t be that suffocating, could it?”

Astoria smiled at him, a little sadly. “Yes, I did get married.” Here she reached out with one hand and threaded it through her husband’s, lifting it off of her knee. “Gregory is my world now, and with him in it none of those things seem to even remotely touch me. The world is different, and it is because of the security we have in our lives.” She turned her face towards Goyle’s, and Harry could see that the man was bravely keeping quiet – though there were tears forming in his eyes. “I do not want for anything, now.

And this, what I have now, this is what Patricia thought she had with her old beau. She had thought she was finally comfortable, and that he understood.” Astoria frowned, looking back at Harry and Malfoy. “Turns out she was wrong.”

She shrugged daintily, leaning forward again to reach for her teacup. Her husband was quicker, and she sat back down as Goyle filled her another cup, picking her up a biscuit, too, as he passed it back to her. She took the cookie delicately, dunking it in her tea before taking a small bite.

“When did they break up?”

“Oh,” Astoria said. “Six months ago, perhaps?”

“Was she seeing anybody new?”

Astoria nodded, her lips pursing together again.

“Denim.”

Harry thought he heard wrong. He didn’t even think a woman like Astoria knew what denim was. He was certain Narcissa Malfoy didn’t.

“Excuse me?” Harry looked over at Malfoy, but his partner was looking thoughtful, staring at Astoria.

“Oh, Harry,” Astoria said, a little sadly. “When you’ve grown up all your life wearing mink from Twilfitt & Tattings, you want to know what denim feels like.” She looked above their heads again, “That’s what Patricia has been doing on and off for years – she thought she had been wrong, but now more than ever she’s determined to … wear denim. Like a Muggle.”

Malfoy made a sound of understanding, pointing at Harry’s notebook without looking at him. Harry wrote down the word ‘Muggle’.

“Do you know if this ‘denim’ has a name, Astoria?” Malfoy asked, clasping his hands together in front of him.

Harry watched her clench Goyle’s hand in her own, and she looked down and wouldn’t meet their eyes.

“No, sorry.”

Harry arched an eyebrow, but said nothing.

Malfoy continued, “Do you happen to know any places she might have gone with this man?”

“Oh, yes.” Astoria sneered prettily, “There’s this one bar – part Wizarding and part Muggle. Patricia said he liked all the hot spots.”

~*~

The Paramount Bar turned out to be one of the hottest, and most expensive, spots in town. Housed at the very top of the iconic Centre Point building, Harry and Malfoy spent the trek up to the top floors taking note of every security camera they passed.

“I wonder if the old man is in …” Malfoy murmured to himself as they flashed their badges – fake Muggle ones used for these situations – at the bouncer by the door to the private bar.

Harry was too stunned by the view to respond. They’d been told, by Astoria, that the bar had a panoramic view of London – but he hadn’t really thought it would be so breathtaking.

“Do you think we could eat first?” Harry asked, eyes locked on the windows, so he didn’t see the soft smile Malfoy turned his way.

“I suppose, if you’re not full up on biscuits.”

Harry shook his head and Malfoy tugged his sleeve over to the very flashy looking counter, where a pretty girl in a smart pantsuit was seating tables.

“Detectives Malfoy and Potter,” he flashed her the Muggle identification before flashing her a winning smile. “We have some questions regarding a case. But first, do you think we could have a table for two?” He raised his eyebrows at her charmingly, and she gave a small laugh before giving him and Harry a once-over.

“Course, gentlemen, for you, I think I can find something.”

She led them to a sleek table next to one of the large windows and left them with the wine list.

The food was almost as divine as the view. Malfoy remarked, surprised, that the French cuisine served for lunch was very authentic. Almost as good as his great-aunt’s House Elf, which was something, apparently.

The restaurant itself was so distracting that, when they were finished eating, Harry had to take a moment to remember the presence of the bar (and that they were on a case). The drinks cabinet itself was just as stylish as the rest of the venue, made from copper and centered in the room with a backlight all around the shelves which held the drinks. Harry thought it would probably look particularly stunning at night.

The bartender on duty had a friendly smile, and he was more than happy to answer their questions.

“Grand view, innit?” he said to Harry, nodding his head toward the windows as his hands were busy polishing a glass. “Can I get you blokes a drink?”

“No,” Malfoy answered, his tone regretful. The wine list had been quite extensive. “We are on duty.” He showed the badges again, and the bartender’s grin turned rueful.

“Ah, shouldn’t have asked then. How can I help?”

Harry cleared his throat and shrugged his shoulders, returning to business. The outer-robes most of the Detective Aurors favored were tailored to look like Muggle trench coats, done purposefully, Harry thought, since it made them all look a bit how Muggles portrayed detectives on the telly. He reached into his robe and pulled out a framed picture of Patricia Bartlett. It was a Wizarding photo, but the frame was transfigured to look like a mobile phone.

“Whoa, is that a .gif?” the bartender asked.

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “Have you seen this girl in here before?”

“Two nights ago, wasn’t it?” the man said, nodding to himself. “Lillet on the rocks, with lemon.”

“Do you remember what time?” Malfoy asked.

“Hmmm,” the bartender set the glass down on the bar top and reached for another. “Maybe nine o’clock, nine-thirty? Her date had beer, imported.”

“Oh?” Malfoy said, interested. He leaned forward on the counter, flicking his eyes to Harry as he pulled out his Muggle notebook. “Who was he? A regular here, maybe?”

“Sure,” responded the bartender, and he nodded his head back toward the restaurant. “He’s an artist-type. Owner purchased some pieces, I think.” He rolled his eyes, “One of those hipster blokes, with the long hair and a beard. Dresses like a Libertine, you know – that type.” He nodded at Harry, “Frames a bit like yours.”

Harry reached up and touched his glasses, self-consciously. He had upgraded from the look he wore at school, but he couldn’t quite bring himself away from something more old-fashioned. He thought it suited him; though, apparently, he was being stylish without realising.

“Had his hair back that night,” the bartender continued. “Ponytail. Better look for him, I reckon.”

Harry wrote down ‘ponytail’, ‘Allen Ginsberg frames’, and ‘Bearded Pete Doherty?’ in his notebook.

“Ah,” Malfoy said. “So, ‘ponytail’ and the girl in the photograph,” he gestured to the frame that Harry had set down on the bar top. “Did they meet here?”

“Nah, they’ve been in a few times the past few months. Prolly came in together – you should ask Sid, the bouncer, he works nights on Mondays, too.” The man screwed up his face thoughtfully, setting down the finished second glass next to the first, “They had an argument, though, I remember. First one of theirs I’d seen, but I doubt it was their first ever – seemed like a storied thing, yeah? He left after, alone.”

“Did she meet anyone else, do you know?” Harry asked, tapping his lower lip with his pen.

“Yeah, she pouted a bit over her mobile. ‘Bout an hour later another bloke came and got her, think they left together. Again, ask Sid.”

“What’d the new bloke look like?”

“Oh, this one is more our usual client, right? Real rich, bit of a cock, but he always tips me well.” He shrugged. “Flirts with every girl in here, though, justabout. Knows he’s handsome, looks kinda like a young Johnny Depp.”

They thanked him and went to question the bouncer. Sid was a tall, well-built man – just the type you’d expect to be guarding the door. Sid recognized the girl, and he had a few choice words about the second bloke.

“Oh, that arsehole came in around 11. I know him because the waitresses don’t like him, full stop, but he’s rolling in it so Comeau doesn’t let me turn him out.”

“Como?” asked Harry.

“Runs the joint, doesn’t he, him and his wife. _Pierre_ Comeau. He’s not here right now, I don’t think.”

“Do you remember if the bloke left with this woman?” Harry was holding the transfigured frame for the bouncer to look at, and he wiggled it a bit in emphasis.

“No, sorry,” Sid said. “Don’t rightly remember either of them leaving, but it was a busy night.” He shrugged, not all that apologetic, “It happens.”

Harry looked at Malfoy who raised his eyebrows at him, glancing back toward the restaurant. Time to check the Wizarding part of the bar.

 

According to Astoria, there was one toilet in the restaurant that was always ‘Out of Order’. It was a cramped space, with just one stall, a sink, and a full-length mirror on the wall opposite the door. When Harry and Malfoy went in, it was very dirty, and there was caution tape strung up around the stall, blocking it off. The mirror was cracked, and there was a chocolate frog card taped to it. This, Astoria had told him, was how you got into the Wizarding Paramount – you tapped the card with your wand, sort of like the bricks to enter Diagon Alley. Malfoy let out a bark of laughter when they saw which card it was.

“Ah, look, it’s a wee Potter.”

Harry scowled, it was a newer edition, one printed after the War that showed him in his teens. He quickly tapped it with his wand and the mirror shuddered, and then swung inward, revealing some stairs. The Wizarding Paramount was located on the _real_ 34 th story of the Centre Point building, but since it was Wizard Space, you couldn’t tell from the outside that the building was actually 35 stories tall.

If the Muggle Paramount had a retro-60s vibe, the Wizarding Paramount was like stepping back into the era itself. As if in opposition to the other section, this part of the bar had no windows whatsoever. This gave it a rather cozy vibe – all the leather helped with that too – and freed up the wall space for all the pictures that lined it. In row after row, Wizarding portraits and photographs were stacked on the walls, all of them famous figures. Harry noted a few that must have been photos of himself enlarged from promotionals taken for the _Prophet_ after the War. Some of the portraits had signatures. His didn’t.

“Ah,” said a voice from one of the high-backed booths. “If it isn’t my erstwhile neighbour. Young Mister Malfoy, how do you do?”

“Mister Hervey,” Malfoy said warmly, leading Harry over to the booth in question. “I was hoping you’d be in. We miss you up in Wiltshire.”

The old wizard scoffed and gave Malfoy an ironic, but kind, smile, “Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt Lucius misses me very much. Do give your mother my salutations, however. I trust she’s as lovely as ever?”

“Even more so,” Malfoy said fondly, always eager to expound upon the virtues of his mother.

“Hello,” Harry broke in, bowing slightly at the waist. “DIA Harry Potter, at your service.”

“Yes,” Malfoy turned, placing one hand on Harry’s back and gesturing to the wizard in front of them. “Potter, this is Harry Hervey, owner of the Centre Point building. And the Paramount as well?” This question was directed to Mr Hervey, who nodded.

“Yes, yes, and quite famous for it, too. Mister Harry Potter,” Mr Hervey looked Harry up and down. “Good to finally meet you. Sit down, both of you, we’ll have a spot of tea and you can tell me why you’re in my building.”

He raised a hand and flicked two fingers, signaling to one of the waitresses who were lingering off to the side. She came back just as Harry and Malfoy got comfortable in the circular booth, facing Hervey.

“We are here on official business,” Malfoy explained, graciously accepting a cup from the waitress. “A witch was injured Tuesday morning in her flat. She was seen patronizing the Paramount the night before.”

“Ah,” Hervey shook his head sadly. “Poor dear. I won’t be much help to you, unfortunately. If I’m in the building, I’m usually in my office. I’m in mourning, you see,” he pointed off-handedly to the band wrapped around his arm, a spot of black against his rich, cobalt-coloured robes. “Not that I find myself out in public much anymore. The papers call me a recluse,” he confided to Harry. “But, truthfully, I just cannot stand to have them write about me. I gather you understand.” Harry did. “Not that it will matter for much longer.”

Malfoy made a sound of inquiry, furrowing his brows.

“I hope you’ve not taken poorly?”

“Oh, no,” Hervey responded. “Just tired. Since my Kay died, really. Don’t have it in me to do it any longer – the Muggle life, I mean. Closed up the house in Wiltshire, thinking of leaving it to the nation.” He sighed, and it was indeed a tired thing. He closed his wrinkled hands around the cup in front of him, one of the rings on his fingers clinking against the porcelain softly.

He didn’t look too old to Harry, but that was the trick of wizards – at some point they all start to look 60 when they could very well be almost a century. His pointed beard was still dark throughout, but there was a certain turn of his eyes, a wearied sloping to his brow, that Harry could sympathize with.

“I’ve had an offer on this place, in fact,” Hervey looked back up and gestured casually around the room. “And I will probably take it, eventually. It’ll put Comeau out, I expect, but he knows how I feel, so it won’t be too much of a surprise.”

“We were told downstairs that it was Comeau who owned the bar,” Harry said.

“No,” Hervey disagreed. “That’s just for the Muggles; I let him front it for me. Kay and I went to France during the War,” he explained. “Met Pierre there. He’s a restaurateur, and damn good at it. Been with him ever since.”

“We were wondering,” Malfoy said. “If you would grant us access to the Muggle security footage for the building itself. What is on those tapes could help us identify who our injured witch was with Monday night.”

“Of course,” Hervey nodded. “But you’ll need Pierre for that. I’m hopeless with Muggle technology, though you wouldn’t think it, given how I’ve chosen to live my life. Just can’t be bothered to keep up, you see, part of the reason I’m thinking of quitting it altogether.”

“Ha,” Hervey scoffed. “There was a time when the Ministry wouldn’t willingly step within ten feet of Muggle innovation. Though I suspect you boys are intimately familiar with all that.” He eyed them speculatively, nodding to himself. Then he raised his hand again and gestured with two fingers, the same waitress appearing promptly. “Send for Comeau, these two gentlemen need to speak with him.”

 

Pierre Comeau was wearing a bowtie and a sharp Muggle suit, perfectly tailored to his short frame. He was also more than happy to help them, and even able to answer some questions regarding Patricia Bartlett, since he was in attendance at Wizarding Paramount during the night in question.

“She was with the Langley boy,” Comeau confided, an admission which made Malfoy frown heartily, but meant nothing to Harry. “And they left together via our Floo around one o’clock in the morning.”

He was, of course, happy to oblige the Aurors with copies of the security tapes, but since neither Harry nor Malfoy had a flash drive on them, he would have to owl the Watchers directly to get the footage over to the Ministry.

All in all, it was a productive visit. Better yet, since there was a Floo connection, they did not have to take the tube back to Whitehall, which pleased Malfoy immensely.

 

“So,” Harry was saying as they walked back into the Office. “Ponytail dumps her, and she hooks up with Johnny Depp.”

“Edward Langley,” Malfoy supplied, frowning again. But he was interrupting from continuing by one of the department secretaries rushing over to them.

“We’ve had an owl from St Mungo’s, looking for you. It’s about your case – Patricia Bartlett.”

“What is it?” Harry said, immediately tense.

“She didn’t make it,” the secretary informed them mournfully, passing over the letter.

“ _Shite_ ,” Harry breathed, skimming the missive briefly before handing it to Malfoy.

“Well,” Malfoy said, reading it over. “I had been wondering if we shouldn’t relinquish this over to Bones or someone.” Susan Bones worked in the Sexual Offence section. “No need now.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “Now it’s murder.”

~*~


	3. Aurors v Hipsters

~*~          

It wasn’t until a day later that they could access the security footage of the Centre Point. The rest of Wednesday had been spent at the hospital, talking to Patricia Bartlett’s parents. Mrs Bartlett had been so distraught by the death of her daughter, understandably so, that Harry hadn’t wanted to bother her by asking if they could borrow Pippy to search Patricia’s flat. He and Malfoy had some solid leads, now, and could most likely drop the burglary hypothesis, anyway.

The Ministry of Magic Witch Watchers – renamed to simply ‘The Watchers’ in the early 2000s, on account of ‘Witch Watchers’ being deemed sexist – were a separate section in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement responsible for an extensive monitoring system placed around Wizarding Britain. It really was the magical equivalent of CCTV, and consisted of many complex spells and equipment all around the country to help search out criminals. They were, too, the Ministry’s experts on retrieving data from Muggle technology.

They had kitted Harry and Malfoy out in a viewing room, queuing up the converted files on a DVD player set to work with all the magic. The chairs were, thankfully, very comfy and Harry had his feet up on the table in front of them, despite Malfoy’s protests. Not that he could really say anything, since he was busy eating popcorn while Harry was left in charge of the remote. He had a habit of snacking when watching telly, boring security footage being no exception.

“Ha!” Malfoy barked out, spilling some popcorn over the rim of his bowl as he leapt forward, pointing at the screen. “Go back, yes, pause it. Ha! Is that who I think it is?”

“Bloody hell,” Harry said, standing as well. “That’s Anthony bleeding Goldstein.”

Malfoy laughed again, shooting a ridiculous grin at Harry. “He does have glasses like yours.”

“Shut it, you,” Harry frowned, pushing his frames up higher on his nose.

“Aw,” Malfoy said fondly. “Don’t worry, I like yours better.”

“You’re an absolute git,” Harry returned, hiding a smile as he turned back to the footage. Time to get some answers.

 

Astoria was right about one thing – denim was definitely involved. Double denim, in fact, a fashion choice Harry rather thought they’d all grown out of when they were children. Not Goldstein, apparently, as he had on a ripped denim vest and very tight jeans when he opened the door to his flat.

“Potter, Malfoy,” he greeted, clearly confused. “To what do I owe this dubious pleasure?”

“DIA Potter and Malfoy,” Harry said, pointing his wand to the badge on his chest. “We’re here to ask you a few questions. Do you know a Patricia Bartlett?”

Goldstein stepped aside and swept a hand out, gesturing for them to enter. He turned his head and Harry saw that he was wearing his hair up in a bun. It was certainly a look, that, along with the dark frames and generous stubble Goldstein was sporting.

Goldstein shut the door behind them and walked into the center of the spacious room, plopping himself down on some pillows. The room was largely devoid of anything else, only a small kitchen in the back and doors on the left-hand side which Harry assumed led to a bathroom and bedroom, respectively. There were large windows lining the right wall, and once Goldstein was seated he swiveled to face the light coming in, crossing his legs beneath him. He placed his hands, palms up, on his knees, and closed his eyes, ignoring them.

Harry and Malfoy stood awkwardly in the near-empty room, watching him. Malfoy was sneering down at Goldstein, clearly offended.

“Uh,” Harry cleared his throat. “Were you and Patricia Bartlett a couple?”

“Yes,” Goldstein answered after a moment, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath. He appeared to be meditating.

“We were told, at the Paramount Bar, that you and she had a very public fight the night of Monday, 20 February,” Malfoy said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Yes,” Goldstein said.

“Can you tell us what it was about?” Harry said, starting to get annoyed.

Goldstein sighed, a put-upon sound that seemed to imply he thought he was above having to do such things.

“I suppose,” he turned his head to the side, but did not open his eyes or otherwise acknowledge them.

Harry frowned and decided to look around, not caring whether it was rude or not. There were some canvases stacked against the kitchen island, facing out. Goldstein apparently _was_ an artist. Harry tipped them forward, one by one, a little impressed despite himself. They were a mix of Wizarding and Muggle paintings, mostly landscapes, but a few that Harry supposed could be termed ‘Modern Art’.

“We were out for a drink. I had a dinner that night – she knew that – my biggest backer. But she wanted me to dine with her, take her back here. I didn’t want to see her anymore. I told her from the start – no commitments.”

“Patricia Bartlett is dead,” Malfoy said.

That got Goldstein’s attention. He opened his eyes in shock and turned to face Malfoy fully.

“What?”

“Somebody beat her up,” Harry said, walking toward the former Ravenclaw, stopping across from Malfoy so that they boxed Goldstein in.

“I didn’t touch her,” Goldstein’s head swung around to look at Harry. “I left the bar after our argument. Like I said: I had a dinner.”

“Can anyone confirm your whereabouts for around 3 am, Tuesday morning, 21 February?” Malfoy said, moving closer to the pile of pillows.

“Eleanor Phillips – my backer. She’s a Muggle. We had dinner with investors. I’ll give you the address.”

Harry stepped aside as Goldstein rose, walking hurriedly to the kitchen in his bare feet.

“We will be checking with her,” Harry said, taking the business card. “Don’t leave town,” he warned, pulling out his notebook to stick the card inside.

“I – I won’t,” Goldstein confirmed, wrapping his arms around himself.

They left without saying goodbye.

 

Eleanor Phillips worked in a tall building across the Thames, though not as tall as Centre Point, and was clearly very proud of what she did.

“Tony and I want to change the way people look at art,” she told them, smug in her red pantsuit.

“Sunday night,” Malfoy reminded her.

“Six investors,” she said, moving to sit on the edge of what looked like a very expensive white marble table. “Friends, really. Drinks, ten o’clock. Dinner, eleven.”

“Can we get the names of these investors?” Malfoy said.

She raised an eyebrow at him, unimpressed. But she stood up and walked back toward a filing cabinet, flicking her full curls over her shoulder as she did so.

“Tony dazzled them,” she said, handing them a piece of paper from a file. “And my friends don’t dazzle easily.”

“Tony’s a dazzling bloke,” Harry said, which didn’t win him a smile from anyone.

“Did Mr Goldstein stay here all night?” Malfoy asked Phillips.

“Mhmm,” was all she said.

“Until 3 in the morning?” Harry asked.

Phillips turned her eyes on him.

“No,” she did smile then, and it wasn’t friendly. “It was ‘till four, actually.” 

~*~

Back at the Ministry, Harry and Malfoy headed down to Level Eight, where the research labs were located. The Forensic Crime Lab was on this level, and the Detective Aurors had an appointment with the Chief Medical Examiner, Augustus Jefferson.

Jefferson was as pleased as he ever was to see them.

“Got your owl, Malfoy, and I am frankly insulted you sent it.”

“My apologies, sir, but I did not want the files to be misplaced.”

“I never misplace my files,” Jefferson informed them. Harry pointedly did not look around the man’s haphazardly arranged office. “Ravi’s got them, anyhow. He’s just finished the autopsy,” the man pointed his wand at his throat. “ _Sonorus_. **Kohli! Get in here!** ”

Harry winced, but moved out of the way as the other medical examiner strolled through the door.

“Yes?” Kohli said, pulling protective gloves off his hands and stuffing them in a pocket of his white robe.

“ _Quietus_. Potter and Malfoy are here about the Bartlett case,” Jefferson waved his hand toward the door, dismissing them all.

Kohli led them into the lab, to a table where the body of Patricia Bartlett was laid out. Unlike with Muggle autopsies (of which Harry’s only experience was what he’d seen on the telly), you couldn’t tell at all that she’d been dissected.

“She died from brain hemorrhages, though I can tell Healer Ahmed did her best,” Kohli said. “The damage was just too great.” His wand was sticking out of a front pocket, dark against the light colour of his robe, and he fished it out to point at her head. He whispered an incantation, causing a diagram – somewhat like a Muggle x-ray – to float out of the woman’s head and hover in the air.

“You can see here,” he gestured with his wand, and certain places of the brain in the image lit up. “And here – that’s where the curse did the most damage.” He flicked his wand and another image rose from her body, this time of the neck and chest area. “I have deduced it was wandless magic –”

Malfoy made a sound. They’d suspected as much, when they first saw the bruising on her body, but it was surprising to have it confirmed.

“Done through contact with her jugular. In essence, he choked her and the curse struck directly from his hands. It then traveled around the base of her head,” at this, he pointed with his free hand to Patricia Bartlett’s actual head. Kohli made an aborted gesture, then dug in his pockets for the gloves he’d put away earlier. He put his wand in his mouth as he put them on, “Sorry, don’t want to cross contaminate. So, see here,” he used one hand to lift Bartlett’s hair up, where there was clear, veiny bruising all around her neck and curving upward into her hairline. “Where it traveled to her spine. From there it went up her nerves and into her brain,” he pointed with his wand back at the first image, “And caused massive bleeding, which resulted in her death a day later.”

“Can you tell what kind of curse it was?”

Malfoy had his hands on the lapels of his robe, his fingers taught.

“To me,” Kohli answered, “it looks to be the Cruciatus Curse. But because it was delivered wandlessly, and with direct contact to the victim, it was unusually deadly.” He pointed to the first image again, “These areas _are_ the usual parts of the brain that are most effected by Cruciatus, but like I said, it’s a bit irregular. I’m sending my findings to St Mungo’s – they have more conclusive data over at the Janus Thickey Ward – I should know definitively for you by next week, maybe earlier.”

Kohli ended the spells and turned toward a desk that was against the wall.

“Here,” he said, grabbing a folder off a precariously large pile. “I’ve typed everything up in here. There should be copies in the Archive, too, if you need extra.”

Malfoy took the folder and immediately opened it. Harry stepped closer to his partner, reaching in his robes for his notebook.

“We also ordered a kit to test for sexual activity?” Malfoy questioned.

“Yeah,” Kohli answered, leaning back against the desk, causing his file stack to wobble. “It should be the third page. Your victim had sexual relations with two different males the night she died.”

Harry clicked his pen, thinking.

“Is there enough physical evidence for a DNA match?”

“If you brought me blood samples, I can get a match for you. No problem.”

“Good,” Malfoy said, snapping the folder closed. “We will get back to you with some.”

~*~

“You didn’t tell us, Goldstein,” Malfoy said as they pushed their way into his flat.

“Tell you what!” Goldstein stammered, steamrolled backwards into his empty living room.

“You had sex with Patricia Bartlett,” Harry said, striding fully into the room, his hands in the pockets of his robe.

“We need your blood,” Malfoy continued, shutting the door behind him with his leg.

“My blood!” Goldstein grabbed at the bathrobe he was wearing, evidently he’d just showered. “What for?”

“To test against DNA evidence found in Patricia Bartlett’s flat,” Malfoy said, drawing his wand.

Goldstein was walking backwards, away from Malfoy. Harry came up behind him and grabbed hold of his shoulders.

“You consent, right?” Harry said, lowly, holding Goldstein in place.

“Y-yes, I suppose. I wasn’t in her apartment, though, we shagged here – before we went for drinks!”

“Hold still,” Malfoy reached out and gripped his arm. “This might hurt.”

“Why didn’t you tell us before?” Harry said, watching Malfoy produce a vial from his robes to funnel the blood into.

“You didn’t ask!” Goldstein spluttered, indignant, snatching his arm back from Malfoy. “You’ll not find anything!” He tried again, as Harry released him.

“You are still not to leave town,” Malfoy replied, and Harry followed his partner back out the door.

 

When they reached the Goyle residence, Malfoy borrowed an owl to send the sample to the Ministry. Astoria was alone today, as her husband was out running errands.

“And how are you boys?” she asked sweetly, holding her hand up so they could both place kisses on her knuckles.

“Just splendid, Astoria, splendid,” Malfoy said, just as sweetly, sitting down on the sofa next to her. “Don’t get up, darling. You look tired today.”

“I am a little,” she admitted, settling herself down against the mound of pillows behind her. “One of those days. With the news, Gregory told me to rest. He’s tasked the _House Elves_ with keeping me relaxed.” She smiled at Harry, gesturing ruefully at the sofa. Malfoy was distractedly fluffing a blanket around her lap, as he’d disturbed it when he joined her.

Harry sat down in a chair opposite them, very amused by the way Malfoy was fussing over her.

“Just a few questions and we’ll be out of your hair,” Harry reassured her.

“Yes,” Malfoy said, reaching out to catch her hands between his. “We would like to ask you about Edward Langley.”

Astoria’s thin brows drew inward and she looked at Malfoy. Harry saw him squeeze her hands.

“Ah,” she said, slumping. “I was hoping he was not involved in this business.”

“Just a few questions,” Harry said lightly, flipping his notebook open. “We take it he’s the ex-boyfriend you mentioned before?”

“Yes,” Astoria confirmed. “They broke up about six months ago, like I said, but they were very serious for a long time. Patty thought they were engaged. She thought he was going to marry her.”

“What happened?” Harry asked, watching Malfoy’s thumb run over the top of Astoria’s hand comfortingly.

“Ned may be a Langley, but he’s from the wrong side of the sheets. Half-blood. He was in Hufflepuff while we were at school. His uncle, Proventus Langley, has no children. It was assumed that he would name Ned as his heir – to keep the family name, you understand. But last summer, around the time Ned and Patty broke up, he named his sister’s eldest son, instead. Blood turned out to be more important.”

She said this matter-of-factly, as if she were unsurprised at the outcome, but her face was a picture of misery.

“It broke Patty’s heart, when Ned broke up with her. I read the announcement in the _Daily Prophet_ , I wasn’t surprised, but … I had hoped. The Bartletts have money. They could have been happy, comfortable. Not wealthy, per se, but comfortable. But that’s not Ned.”

She sighed, leaning back further into her plush pillows, “He’s engaged now to Alicia Fawcett. The banns will be posted next week.”

The Fawcetts, Harry knew from one of Malfoy’s society lectures, had both blood and money.

“And the Fawcetts don’t mind that he’s a Half-blood?”

“Oh,” Astoria smiled at Harry. “That’s the thing about Ned – the same thing his uncle cannot stand about him, so I’ve heard – he puts on the most convincing act. One would think he’s been supping on silver spoons his whole life. Though,” here she perked up and looked at Malfoy conspiratorially, “I know for a _fact_ he went to a Muggle primary school before Hogwarts.”

“Really!” Malfoy said, grinning gleefully. “He’s so _insufferable_.”

“I went to a Muggle primary school,” Harry said.

“Of course you did, dear,” Astoria told him, smiling indulgently. “But you are a far better man than Ned Langley.”

Harry ducked his head.

“Aw,” Malfoy said, “you’ve made Potter blush, Astoria.”

“He’s so very handsome when he blushes,” she sighed cheekily, causing Malfoy to laugh.

“I suppose,” Malfoy conceded, still laughing. “Pity about his hair, though.”

“Oi!” Harry said, looking back up at them. “We’re leaving, now, Astoria. Thanks for answering our questions.”

Harry left the room quickly, letting Malfoy follow _him_ out for a change.

~*~

“I hope we book him before the banns go out,” Malfoy said after dinner that night. Harry had made Kreacher open one of the 2008 Chassagne-Montrachets, and was tasting it slowly as the House Elf served them dessert.

“You don’t think Goldstein did it, then?”

“No, not at all.”

“Hmm,” Harry said, taking a bite of the absolutely sinful chocolate cheesecake they had chosen to go with the wine. “I guess that’s why you didn’t get a sample of his magic, too.”

“Correct,” Malfoy said, watching Harry. “We absolutely need both samples from Langley, however.”

“You like him for it?”

Malfoy didn’t answer for a moment, looking distracted as he swirled wine around in his glass.

“I’ve overheard some things,” he said, slowly. “At parties, mostly. When there weren’t any witches around. The talk is that Langley does not care too much for women.”

“Is he gay?” Harry asked.

“No, not that,” Malfoy frowned, frustrated. “I forget who I’m talking to – everything must be so plain with you, Potter. Word is that Langley treats women like dogs, talks about them as if they were rubbish to be played with, or simply used however he wishes. Like House Elves, a bit, perhaps.”

“Ah, right. I see,” Harry said, frowning too, though he’d understood well enough what Malfoy had meant at first. It was so easy, though, to rile his partner up, and Malfoy had been looking dangerously melancholy just then. “Well, all the more reason to make sure we get samples from him.”

Malfoy sighed, but was smiling as he placed his glass back down on the table.

“That’s what I’ve been saying, Potter. All caught up, now?”

“Uh huh,” Harry smirked, taking another bite of the cake, relieved the mood was lifting. “ _God_ , this is good.”

Malfoy smirked back.

“Drink your wine, Potter.”

Harry demurely took a sip, watching Malfoy finger the bottom of his own glass.

“What do you think?” said Malfoy after a moment.

“About the case?” Harry asked innocently.

“About the wine,” Malfoy clarified. “I think it went very well with the fish.”

“Oh, yeah, even better with the chocolate. You always know what’s best.”

Malfoy preened at the compliment, raising his glass to Harry. He turned back to his plate, busying himself with eating his dessert. By the time Malfoy was done, a flush was beginning to darken his throat.

“More?”

“No,” Malfoy said. “I’d better head out. May I use your Floo?”

“Course,” Harry said, standing up. “I’ll walk you out.”

Malfoy turned a smile on him, pulling his outer-robe off the chair where he’d left it. The robe looked to be made of stiff wool, with a high collar which framed Malfoy’s face after he’d slid it on. Malfoy ran a hand through his hair, dislodging several strands of blond from where they’d been pinned close to his cheeks. Harry’s head felt fuzzy – wine must’ve got to him – but he couldn’t look away from Malfoy’s face, and the contrast between his pale skin, hair, and the black of the coat-collar.

Harry slowly tore his eyes away from Malfoy’s cheek to meet his partner’s gaze, and he immediately came back to himself. Malfoy was looking at him with one eyebrow raised, the smile still on his face, though it was steadily edging toward a smirk. Harry felt his face heat, and he reached a hand up to wrap around the back of his own neck, ducking his head in embarrassment. Fine vintage, the Chassagne-Montrachets, but clearly it was time for Harry to turn in.

“All right, Potter?”

“Yeah,” Harry cleared his throat. “Ready?”

“After you,” Malfoy said, and Harry scoffed, holding a hand out to guide him to the living room.

“Good night, Malfoy.”

~*~


	4. Solicitor Granger

~*~

The next day found them in their superior’s office, arguing in vain.

“Ten-to-one,” Harry said crossly. “He did it!”

Detective Superintendent Auror Furrow did not look convinced.

“And what does the evidence say? The witnesses?”

“The witnesses can place him leaving the bar with Patricia Bartlett,” Malfoy answered, sitting in a chair in front of the Superintendent’s desk. Harry was prowling up and down on the carpet behind him.

“Your intuition, DIA Potter, is not how this Department makes arrests,” Furrow said sharply. “And sit down! You are making me dizzy.”

Harry flung himself into the chair next to Malfoy.

“I am not prepared to go to the WAS with circumstantial evidence only,” continued Furrow. “Go and talk to the boy, _ask_ him to come in for an interview. Maybe he will consent to the samples, if you ask nicely.”

“Fine,” Harry said, standing again.

“Our only other lead has an alibi for the night in question,” Malfoy pointed out.

“The Wizengamot will not grant it, DIA Malfoy, and I will not beggar myself when you have not even talked to the suspect. If he will come in without the writ, very good, and if not,” Furrow shrugged. “This is okay, too. If it turns out so, _then_ I will go and apply for a warrant, for he will be obstructing justice. But _ask_ first.”

Malfoy scowled at the DSA before following Harry out of the room.

 

When they arrived at Edward Langley’s flat, he was in the process of selling it.

“Perhaps we could speak outside, sirs?”

Langley only let them have the barest glimpse of the flat’s foyer before he fairly pushed them into the building’s hallway. It was enough for Harry to see the suspicious faces of a smartly dressed couple and the reassuring gestures of a small, harried-looking witch. A Realtor, Harry guessed.

“Mr Langley,” Malfoy said, indignantly straightening his robes. “As mentioned, we are here to question you regarding the death of Patricia Bartlett. It would be preferable if you would come with us to the Auror Office.”

“I see,” Langley said, lip curling. “You might consider, in the future, sending an owl, instead of _intruding_ into the private lives of Upstanding Wizards. You have interrupted some very delicate negotiations. But no matter,” he spread his hands outward. “I am willing to answer any questions you may have. Terrible state of affairs – she was a lovely woman. I actually saw her the night she died,” he admitted.

“Hmm,” Harry said. “Any information you can give us would greatly help our investigation. Shall we go to the Ministry?”

“Am I under suspicion?”

“No,” Harry said. “No, no. We would just like to ask you some questions. Why,” he grinned at Langley. “Should we arrest you?”

Langley gave out an awkward laugh, his eyes cutting back to the door of his flat. “Well, let me just tie up a few loose ends here, and contact my advocate. Then we can use my Floo.”

~*~

Edward Langley, twenty-eight years old, perched in his chair with affected grace. His robes were finely tailored, and his hair was slicked back from his face in a style reminiscent of the way Malfoy had worn his hair at Hogwarts. But, Langley was dark where Malfoy was fair, and the man had left some strands loose at his temple, styling them so they swept artfully over his brow. He was handsome, Harry thought, but there was an edge to it. His cheekbones were stark on his face, and his eyes were dull and half-lidded, making him look perfectly bored with the situation. One of his legs was crossed over the other, and his hands were resting on top of his knee. Although he looked outwardly calm – purposefully uninterested – Harry was watching him rub the first fingers and thumb of his right hand together, as if he wished a cigarette were between them.

Harry was standing, his arms crossed, in a room just outside the interview room Langley was waiting in. Hermione Granger, solicitor for the Wizengamot, was standing next to him. The wall they were facing was transparent on their end – it appeared to be an ordinary blank wall on the opposite side – and they could see the proceedings clearly. Harry kept his eyes on Langley as Malfoy entered the interview room, walking to the table with a grace which, Harry thought, out-shone Langley’s. Or, maybe he was just biased. Either way, Malfoy walked into the interview room, the door closing wandlessly behind him.

Malfoy placed a few files on the table between him and Langley with a snap, waving his hand at the only other chair in the room, causing it to levitate so Malfoy could sit comfortably at the table. Harry saw Langley’s eyebrows arch in response to the display. Hopefully he was intimidated.

Malfoy opened one of the folders and arranged some of the parchment inside, looking away from Langley. When finished with his perusal, Malfoy drew his wand. Harry watched as Langley leant back in his chair at the motion – most likely keenly aware they had confiscated his wand before placing him in the interview room. Malfoy aimed, however, at a small box fixed to the table between them. The device looked a little like an old-fashioned Muggle chess clock, but with a gramophone horn attached. Malfoy switched it on with a flick of his wand, and a slight static crackle could be heard filling the air. The device was part of the reforms instituted by the Ministry since the War.

“This is Detective Inspector Auror Draco Malfoy. The time is,” Malfoy paused and threw out his arm, shaking his cuff up so he could read the expensive timepiece he was wearing. “Eleven-oh-six in the morning on Friday, 24 February 2012. I am interviewing Edward Iovis Langley in regards to case MC106: Patricia Hebony Bartlett.

Mr Langley,” Malfoy addressed the suspect. “On the night of Monday, 20 February 2012, witnesses at the Paramount Bar in Greater London state that you and Miss Patricia Bartlett – hereafter to be referred to as ‘Bartlett’ – were seen having dinner together at eleven o’clock. Can you confirm this?”

“Yes,” Langley answered, hesitant. “I am not sure if it was precisely 11, I rather thought I arrived closer to midnight, but we did have dinner that night – in the Wizarding section of the Paramount Bar.”

Malfoy opened another folder, pulling something out.

“This is a still photograph from the security cameras outside the Centre Point building, which houses the Paramount Bar. You can be seen entering the Centre Point at 10:44 pm on 20 February. Can you please confirm whether this is indeed you in the photograph?”

Langley bent forward, glancing briefly at the photo.

“Yes, that appears to be me.”

Malfoy pulled out another photo.

“This is from the security camera outside the Muggle entrance to the Paramount Bar. The time on the photo reads ‘10:51 pm’ – can you confirm whether or not this is you?”

Langley looked again, nodding.

“You need to speak up for the recording, Mr Langley.”

“Yes,” Langley said, scowling. “That is indeed me in the photograph.”

“Thank you,” Malfoy said, drawing both photos back into the folder. He picked up the first folder, pulling out a sheet of paper. “This is a signed witness statement from Pierre Louis Comeau, general manager of both the Muggle and Wizarding sections of the Paramount Bar – hereafter referred to as ‘Comeau’ – stating that he sat Bartlett and you at a table in Wizarding Paramount at precisely eleven o’clock on 20 February 2012. He knew this because, according to his statement, he sat the two of you underneath an antique Ketterer, clearly noting the time.”

“That gauche thing is an antique?”

“Not a fan of cuckoo clocks, Mr Langley?” Malfoy asked, and Harry dearly wished he could see Malfoy’s face. Langley simply scowled at Malfoy further. “Ah, well. As you can see, the witness statement places you sitting down to dinner at precisely 11 o’clock. The statement also goes on to say that you left Wizarding Paramount at around one o’clock via their Floo connection. Where did you go?”

“Home,” Langley said.

“Hmm,” Malfoy said, reaching for the third folder he brought with him. He pulled out a report, turning it and placing it down on the table, two fingers holding it in place. “The medical examiner for the Auror Office found physical evidence that two different men had been sexually active with Bartlett before she was admitted to St Mungo’s Hospital. We have determined that one of the men was Anthony Josias Goldstein. Were you the other?”

“How utterly crude!” Langley spat, straightening in his chair. “I am engaged to another woman, sir.”

“Did you, or did you not, have sexual intercourse with Patricia Bartlett? Crude as it may be, Mr Langley, would you please answer the question? You said you would help the Auror Office in its investigation.”

“And I have helped you – I have answered your questions, to a point. And at this point, I draw the line. Where is my Advocate?”

Malfoy sighed and turned in his chair, his profile coming into view. He raised an eyebrow at the viewing wall. Harry sighed too.

“Well,” said Hermione, from Harry’s left. “That went swimmingly.”

Harry was unable to respond, as the door to the room they were in suddenly opened. It was DSA Furrow, leading an irritatingly familiar man into the room.

“Nott,” Hermione said, coldly.

“Granger,” Theodore Nott said, nodding at her. He inclined his head, “Potter. What exactly is going on here?” Nott turned and spoke to Furrow, his robes billowing out as he pivoted. That, too, was frustratingly familiar.

Nott was tall, dark, and handsome. His skin was an olive-brown, and the slope of his brow added an intensity to his stare that also reminded Harry of Severus Snape. He had an aquiline nose, with high cheekbones, and dark brown hair that swept just to his shoulders, curling around the neck of his formal robes.

Furrow frowned, smoothing two fingers over his small mustache. He met Hermione’s eyes and she nodded. Furrow stepped over to an intercom on the viewing wall, pressing a button on it.

“DIA Malfoy, please read Mr Langley his rights.”

“What are you charging my client with?” Nott said, stepping back so he could view all three of them without turning his head. He planted the cane he was holding down on the ground in front of him, folding both of his gloved hands over the top.

“Murder, Advocate Nott,” Hermione said, crossing her arms and staring him down unflinchingly. “We are charging your client with the murder of Patricia Bartlett. We will be petitioning for a writ to obtain samples of both his blood and his magic.”

~*~

The courtroom where the initial hearing was held was as small as it was busy – which is to say, very. As such, Harry and Malfoy were only able to stand at the back, shoulder to shoulder, as they waited for Langley’s name to be called. Arraignment hearings were done with only one Warlock presiding over the court. Harry could see Langley sitting in a row with other defendants, unshackled, but with an Auror from the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol section standing guard.

When the case number was called, Nott stood up from the galley – he was entitled to one of the few seats, as he was an advocate – and strode confidently to the appropriate podium. Harry peered around the crowd to catch a glimpse of Hermione, who was standing next to her own podium, whispering fervently with one Penelope Clearwater, Executive Solicitor for the Wizengamot. Presently, Clearwater sat down and folded her hands in front of her on the desk assigned to the prosecuting attorneys. It seemed as if Hermione were taking the lead on this case. Harry smiled.

The presiding Warlock looked up from his paperwork, “Edward Iovis Langley?”

Langley stood up and walked to stand next to his advocate, his hands balled into fists by his side. The Warlock peered down from his bench, addressing Langley:

“Mr Langley, the charge against you is Murder of the First Degree. How do you plead?”

“Not guilty,” Langley said, his voice ringing out in the small room. The Warlock nodded and picked up a quill, scratching something down on one of the many papers before him.

“If it pleases Your Honour,” spoke Nott. “Mr Langley is a trustworthy young man, from a well-respected family, and this is his first offence in front of the Wizengamot. The mettle of his character –”

“Ah, yes,” the Warlock interjected, reaching to adjust his glasses as he eyed Nott speculatively. “And you would know, Advocate, being from Langley & O’Connell. Is his uncle to stand as a character witness for the defendant?” The galley murmured with this pronouncement, and Harry felt Malfoy nudge him with his shoulder. “All of that aside, Mr Nott, your client is charged with murder. Get on with it, if you please.”

“Of course, Your Honour,” Nott did not sound ruffled in the slightest. “Thank you. Mr Langley has recently suffered reverses in his personal finances and bail would be a severe hardship. The defence asks that you release him on his own recognizance.”

“Hmph,” said the Warlock.

“Your Honour!” Hermione broke in clearly. “Hardship or not, as your estimable Self has already mentioned, Mr Langley is charged with the murder of a young witch –”

“I am aware of the specifics, Solicitor Granger,” the Warlock said, grabbing his gavel. “Bail is set to twenty-five thousand galleons, paid to the Wizengamot Administrative Services, to be reclaimed on the first day of trial. If Mr Langley cannot afford such an expense, he shall be remanded to the care of Azkaban prison until such time as his sentencing,” he banged the gavel loudly. “Dismissed.”

 

Clearwater had gone by the time Harry and Malfoy caught up with Hermione in the hallway outside the court. Harry held out a hand to stop them from moving further, tilting his head up to acknowledge the gaggle of reporters ahead of them. Malfoy made a noise when he spied Langley and Nott in the midst of them, a small witch at Langley’s side.

“Oh, her parents will be most displeased,” he said.

“Come,” Hermione said, gesturing to a different hallway.

“Who was that?” Harry asked.

“The Fawcett girl,” Malfoy answered. “I suspect she posted his bail.”

“Why?” asked Hermione, dodging around a court clerk before meeting back with them. Harry grabbed hold of Malfoy’s elbow in the crush. “Oh, never mind, let’s get out of here first. What time is it?”

“Almost teatime!” Harry said, a touch loud.

“Meet me for dinner,” Hermione said, having to pull away from them again. “I want to see the Paramount. Wizarding side, six o’clock?”

 

“Delighted to see you again, Detectives, just delighted!” Pierre Comeau gushed over Harry and Malfoy as he led them to the table where Hermione was already seated. “Anything you need that is not on le menu, send a waiter, and I will get it. Bon appétit!”

Harry slid into the booth between Hermione and Malfoy, picking up a menu. He glanced at Malfoy.

“Are we done for the day?”

“Yes, I should think,” Malfoy replied, flagging a waiter. He reached over and picked up the outer-robe Harry had discarded and wadded into a ball. “Do you have a coatroom?”

“Yes, we do. Your name?”

“Malfoy,” he shook out Harry’s robe before handing it to the waiter. “Thank you.”

Harry couldn’t help a fond smile as he watched Malfoy remove his suit-jacket before sliding in next to Harry in just his shirtsleeves and vest. He carefully laid his jacket down next to him. Harry apologized to Hermione and shrugged out of his jacket as well, causing his friends to have to lean back as he got out of it. Malfoy scowled at him, but took the piece of clothing and placed it on top of his own. Harry felt Hermione pat his knee under the table and he turned to smile at her.

“You look well! How’s Ron?”

“Oh, busy. George has moved his therapy back to once a week, so Ron is a bit less stressed. Not that he would admit to it, mind, but I know it was bothering him. For many reasons.”

Harry reached out to squeeze one of her hands.

“Oh, Harry, don’t be silly. Everything is perfectly fine,” she smiled and shook him off, gesturing to the menu. “Have you eaten here before?”

“We had lunch on the Muggle side,” Malfoy informed her. “But we did not get to try their wines …”

“How about a red?” said Hermione.

“They have a 1995 Clinet,” Malfoy said.

Hermione nodded, and Harry busied himself with the menu, trying to think of something that would go with red wine.

“Filet mingnon?” Malfoy said softly. “Or they have Chateaubriand, which I am sure you would like. Yes, let’s do that.” Malfoy closed his menu with a snap and held his hand out to take Harry’s. Harry handed it to him gratefully.

“So,” Hermione said, after the waiter had taken their orders. “Edward Langley. Half-blood, Hufflepuff, not yet 30. His uncle’s firm is representing him, though Warlock Manetti seemed to think that his uncle would not demonstrate support in person.”

“I am inclined to agree with him,” Malfoy said. “According to my mother, Proventus Langley has been on the outs with his brother, Emanuele Langley, since he married Edward’s mother. Proventus has named his sister’s son, Andre Fawley, as his heir.”

“Hmm,” said Hermione. “Interesting that he would provide council for his nephew, then.”

Malfoy shrugged, “Edward is still a Langley, and a scandal is still a scandal.”

“How likely is it, do you think, that Proventus will influence the Wizengamot?”

“Well, the Fawleys have seats in court – they are one of the sacred twenty-eight.”

Hermione pursed her lips, but said nothing.

“But, considering the disagreements within the family, I do not think Proventus Langley will interfere; I truly do not. He has done what Society would expect of him – provide council to a blood relative, as he had the means in which to do so. It would honestly be surprising if he were to do more, especially considering Edward is not his heir.”

“What about the Fawcetts?” Harry asked.

At this, both Hermione and Malfoy looked considerate.

“The family, or the fiancée?” said Malfoy.

“Alicia Fawcett. She’s unpredictable,” Hermione mused, propping her chin up on one hand. “By all accounts, she’s a girl in love.”

“Right,” said Hermione. “If they go out as scheduled, we can expect their support.”

Malfoy nodded, “I don’t know if the Fawcetts have seats on the Wizengamot. I can ask Mother if she knows?”

Hermione waved him off, “I can get the listing. Thank you, though. They wouldn’t be allowed to sit the case, anyway, if they were. Conflict of interest.”

“Well, that’s something,” Harry said.

“A small something,” Hermione agreed. “Langley looks good on parchment. He’s young, handsome, did well on his OWLs and NEWTs, and has never had a case before the Wizengamot. His name has not been in the papers unfavorably. He’s an unknown quantity with a good name. Aside from his money troubles, we don’t have any historical reference for his behaviour. The Warlocks might take one look at him, and based on his breeding, decide it was an accident.”

“Or, they might decide that just because you’re fit doesn’t mean you get away with murder,” Harry interjected grumpily, folding his arms across his chest.

Hermione sighed, leaning back in the booth and crossing one leg over the other.

“We don’t have any witnesses to what happened after they left here,” she tilted her head to indicate the Paramount. “It’s going to take a lot more than moral indignation to get a conviction. We better hope your circumstantial evidence pans out.”

“It will,” said Malfoy. “He did it, the tests will prove it.”

“It would be better if we had a confession,” Hermione said testily.

“And I’d like a niffler with access to the crown jewels,” Malfoy rejoined. “But we all must take what we can get.”

“Comeau can place the victim and Langley here at 1 o’clock in the morning,” said Harry, ignoring them. “And Vicky found Bartlett at 3:15 am in her flat. Langley says he was at home, alone.”

The waiter came back with their wine, pouring them each a glass. Hermione sipped hers with a frown.

“Anthony Goldstein?”

“He’s got seven Muggles who can attest to his whereabouts,” Malfoy said. “Solid alibi.”

“Better and better,” said Hermione. “We can prove Langley was with Bartlett an hour or so before she was attacked. As Malfoy says, the DNA can prove he was with her intimately. But only the magic resonance can prove he was in her home. That, or another witness.”

~*~

“Your Honour, this is a gross invasion of my client’s privacy. The writ as it has been issued cannot be fulfilled by Mr Langley. For the record, my client cannot perform magic wandlessly. The request, by the prosecution, for evidence of Mr Langley’s so-called Wandless Magic is unreasonable.”

The trial Warlock looked Mr Nott up and down, obviously sceptical. It was Monday, before nine o’clock in the morning, and Harry could sympathise with her expression. Nott was pulling it out of his arse, and really, wasting everyone’s time.

“Advocate Nott,” Warlock Shafiq said. “If your client has nothing to hide, there is no reason he cannot provide a resonance for the court. If he is innocent, as is his claim, why not cast a simple charm and be done with it?” She did not expect an answer, and she continued, raising her voice over Nott calling out her title. “Solicitor Granger?”

“Your Honour,” said Hermione. “This evidence is crucial in determining whether or not the defendant was present at the scene of the crime. A sample of Mr Langley performing wandless magic – even a simple fire-calling spell, which statistically most witches and wizards _can_ perform wandlessly,” here she held up a piece of parchment, which Harry assumed had such figures on it that would back her statement. “Is essential to establishing his guilt, or, as the case may be, his innocence.”

“Bailiff,” said Warlock Shafiq, motioning for the parchment Hermione was holding. A court official stepped out and drew his wand, floating the parchment from Hermione to the presiding Warlock. No one else in the room was allowed to have a wand on them.

Warlock Shafiq caught the paper deftly and reached inside her robes, drawing out her pince-nez. Harry supposed over-ear glasses wouldn’t work too well with her headscarf. She placed the glasses on her nose and read over the parchment, drawing a quill from a nearby inkpot to make a few notes. Presently, she set down the parchment, capped the quill, and removed her glasses.

“The precedents provided by Solicitor Granger are compelling,” she announced. “Mr Langley will provide a sample of his magic – with a wand, and without. He will attempt to wandlessly light a candle, no less than three times, which should be more than sufficient for a resonance to be captured.”

There were murmurs throughout the galley, and Harry watched Hermione bow slightly to the Warlock as Nott turned roughly to whisper with his client.

Malfoy nudged Harry’s side, leaning over in his seat to say, “Doesn’t look like Fawcett is in attendance.”

Harry looked around, “No, don’t see her. Shall we tell Hermione?”

But Malfoy was already drawing a piece of parchment out of his robes, “Got a pen on you?”

“Course,” Harry said, amused. He fished out a ball-point pen and handed it to Malfoy.

Malfoy scribbled something on the parchment, handed the pen back to Harry, and began folding it into a crane. He then placed it on his palm and blew on it a little, smiling smugly as it took off in flight, heading straight for Hermione. Harry laughed and shook his head, looking over to see Nott glaring daggers at them.

“Come on,” said Malfoy. “Let’s go have a chat with the fiancée.”

“I’m following you,” Harry replied.

~*~

Alicia Fawcett lived in Cheshire Alley. Not that far from Bartlett’s building, in fact, which instantly made Harry and Malfoy suspicious.

“The door to Bartlett’s flat was open,” Malfoy said as they lingered outside Fawcett’s building, looking down the road towards where Patricia Bartlett had lived.

“Yeah, as if he left in a hurry. Vicky’s building has an Apparition ward around the upper floors – you can only Apparate out on the ground floor, by the elevator.”

“That is, if he didn’t just run down the street,” said Malfoy, rubbing a hand over his chin.

“Do you think it’s worth canvasing?”

“Hmm,” Malfoy said, thinking. “Honestly, Potter, I am not sure.”

“Let’s talk to Fawcett first,” Harry suggested. “Maybe she’ll admit she saw him?”

Malfoy let out a bark of laughter before walking up to the townhouse building, his wand out to make sure his badge was properly displayed. A House Elf opened the door and showed them upstairs, to a small library, where they were told Ms Fawcett was spending the afternoon.

Harry knew that Alicia Fawcett was in her early twenties, but the witch in front of them looked so much younger than that. She was sitting on a window-seat with a book in her lap. Her curly hair was tied up in ribbons around her head in a sort-of-Grecian style, which, with her flowing white robes, made her look like she belonged in a romantic BBC special. The smile she bestowed on them when Malfoy said Langley’s name was beatific, and Harry’s stomach clenched at her naivety.

“Edward is truly the kindest, most selfless wizard I know,” she told them. “I am often poorly – but he never says a negative word, even when we have to cancel plans. Once, I was in St Mungo’s Hospital, and he dropped everything to come and sit with me,” she smiled softly and opened her book again, turning it so they could see. “He brought the loveliest daffodils for my bedside,” she touched the dried flower reverently.

“Did you speak with Mr Langley the night of Patricia Bartlett’s attack?” asked Malfoy.

Fawcett turned her head to look out the window, her curls turning honey-gold in the English sunshine.

“I spoke to him the next day. He did not mention Miss Bartlett,” was all she said.

 

Harry was distracted the whole way back to Diagon Alley. They decided on Fortescue’s for lunch – reopened after the Second War as a sort of café/ice cream parlour fusion – and Harry sipped his foamy drink moodily.

“So,” Malfoy said, eating his way through a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

“Hermione was right,” said Harry.

“She frequently is,” Malfoy agreed, eyeing him steadily.

“We’ll get no help from the fiancée – and with our luck, the defence will call her as a character witness, and all the court will be subjected to pressed flowers and lovelorn sighing.”

“I did feel there was something,” said Malfoy, taking a sip of his tea.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Something. But I can’t tell if it’s our kind of something, or if she’s simply embarrassed that her fiancé spent time with another woman. It’s not clear if she actually _knows_ anything.”

“Hmm,” said Malfoy. “Her embarrassment may be useful. If we found more evidence, a counter to her stellar opinion of his character – that may change her mind.”

Harry leant back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest.

“She told us that her parents have postponed the announcement of their engagement until the trial is sorted. If they are hesitant, anything we suss up could weigh on her.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy nodded. “We need to turn over Langley’s life.”

“I’ll owl Hermione,” Harry said. “There’s a hunch I want to check out.” 

~*~

From Hermione they got a writ for the Muggle Liaison Office. The writ then allowed them to obtain a Muggle subpoena for any records pertaining to Edward Langley.

“Can’t do it, mate,” the Ministry employee told them, staring at the screen of a modified computer.

“You can’t get us the Muggle warrant?”

“Wouldn’t do you any good if I did. According to this bloody thing,” the bloke motioned to the computer, a bit helplessly. The Watchers were trying their best to integrate their hybrid technology throughout the Ministry, but it was a slow process. “The name has been flagged in the Archives. All Muggle records containing mention of the wizard Edward I Langley have been expunged.”

The liaison pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and then swished his wand at another device next to him, which shook a bit before spitting out some parchment. Some modified printer, Harry supposed.

“Here, that’s all there is on my end. Rest will be in the Obliviator Headquarters, or down in the Archives. Anything else I can help you gents with?”

“No, thank you,” said Harry, holding one side of the parchment as Malfoy grabbed the other. Malfoy was reading it fervently.

“Obliviators? Why would they have wiped Langley’s Muggle records?”

“I bet I could take a guess,” Harry muttered darkly, pushing at the small of Malfoy’s back. He guided them out of the Muggle Liaison Office and toward the Obliviator Headquarters, placing one hand on Malfoy’s shoulder so he did not bump into anything. He was still reading the print-out while walking.

           

The Obliviators had more information, but Harry was hard-pressed to say it was _useful_ information. For their troubles, they had a shrunken box containing lots of files of events which, technically, didn’t happen. They also had the recall number for a Pensieve in the Archives belonging to the Head Obliviator on the case – something which Harry had wanted to check out right away, but Malfoy had insisted on taking their findings to Hermione first.

“Langley assaulted a Muggle girl?” she exclaimed, grabbing for the unshrunken folder Malfoy was offering her.

“Six years ago,” Malfoy said. “Bristol. He was arrested by the Muggle police for sexual assault and battery, but the Obliviators stepped in as soon as he was arrested. His uncle provided an advocate then, too, and the firm moved quickly to get him out of Muggle custody. The Obliviators infiltrated the Bristol police force, freed Langley, and wiped all the records of the assault.”

“There’s a Pensieve,” Harry said, perching on the edge of Hermione’s desk. “Down in the Archives, it has the leading Obliviator’s memories of her questioning the victim: Muggle girl by the name of Sunny Boden,” he frowned. “Boden now thinks she sustained her injuries in a car crash.”

Hermione was flipping through the files, a scowl on her face.

“Go get that memory, I want to view it. And talk to Obliviator Andrews, see if there’s anything else that isn’t in this report.”

 

Obliviator Andrews was a very hardened witch, and she had some very choice views about Edward Langley.

“Little shit,” she spat, hands in the pockets of her outer-robe. “Roughing that Muggle girl up, then having us fix it all nice. Done it again, hasn’t he?”

“What can you tell us about the Boden case?” Harry said.

“You’re gonna have to walk and talk, lads, I’m on a job,” Andrews said, picking a bucket cap off her desk and swinging a large scarf around her neck.

“Ah, I was wondering if you could tell us anything more about the case itself?” Harry said, catching up with her. Irritatingly, Malfoy didn’t even have a hair out of place even though they’d pretty much ran of the Ministry and into Muggle London trying to keep up with Andrews.

“Not much to tell that weren’t in the file,” Andrews replied gruffly. “Boden was a young girl, pretty. University aged, think that’s how Langley met her. We Obliviators don’t get into the particulars of whys, just the hows – so we can undo them,” She peered up at Harry from under the brim of her hat. “That’s your lot with the whys, so you tell me – why’d he do it?”

“He has not made a confession, so we cannot attest as to why he has committed these crimes,” Malfoy said, striding alongside them. “But we can say that he seems to be escalating in his methods. Boden was not harmed by magic, was she?”

“Merlin, no, that’ve been a whole other box of shite, wouldn’t it? No, everything about the case was Muggle, except it were done by a Wizard. He strangled her because she wouldn’t shag him. Poor petal could barely talk after. The job’s a blessing, sometimes, in that way,” she stopped to stick her hand out, flagging down a Muggle taxi. “She’s better off believing it were an accident.” 

~*~


	5. The Wizengamot v E Langley, day one

~*~

Over a decade had passed since Harry had first been inside a courtroom for the Wizengamot, and there had been a lot of changes over the years. In fact, Malfoy had told him that the _Daily Prophet_ was heralding this period as the Wizarding Reformation, as so much had changed, and so very quickly, in contrast with how the Ministry had been run in the past. Harry was glad for it – he had nothing positive to say about the Ministry as it had been. And even less to say about the Wizengamot before the Reformation.

Once, the courtrooms had been dingy, cavernous, and oppressive. They was still cavernous, in a way, as they did not change Level Ten’s architecture, but the courtrooms had been renovated – and a lot more light sources were added – which improved the atmosphere greatly.

Since Malfoy was called as a witness on behalf of the Criminal Investigation Unit, and wouldn’t be appearing for another day, Harry was currently sitting alone in the galley. He had a clear view of the entire courtroom from his seat in the highest row.

The trial of Edward Langley was not a full Wizengamot – the Warlocks in attendance did not number fully fifty – but rather a respectable eleven. Five Warlocks sat on either side of the Head Warlock judging the case, Mahnoor Shafiq, each in the traditional plum-coloured robes and headdresses of the court. Warlock Shafiq was wearing her traditional cap on top of a black head-scarf, looking thoughtfully over the room as the court readied itself for the first day of trial.

The attorneys were gathered on the floor in front of the galley, each with a desk and a podium. They were wearing black robes similar to the traditional attire of the Wizengamot, but their caps were a bit more academic in style. Hermione had tamed her dark, poofy hair back in braids, woven close to her head, and had looped them together into a coiled bun at the back of her neck. Her cap was settled officially on top of the braids, and her robes looked very crisply pressed.

Gone were the days when defendants were kept in a chained chair in the centre of the courtroom. Instead, Langley was sitting next to his advocate, in fine formal robes, listening as Nott’s aide talked to him. Nott was standing at the podium, looking down at something Harry guessed must be trial notes.

Presently, Warlock Shafiq stood, prompting the rest of the Warlocks behind her to rise as well. The courtroom quieted as they all followed suit, waiting for Warlock Shafiq to speak.

“The Wizengamot is now in session. We are here to judge the case of Edward Iovis Langley versus the Ministry of Magic in regards to the murder of Patricia Hebony Bartlett. Mr Langley has been charged with Murder of the First Degree. Today we will hear the opening statements from both the Ministry’s Prosecution Office and from Mr Langley’s Defence Advocate. We will then hear testimony from the Prosecution in regards to the case. Mr Langley will have a chance to cross-examine each piece of evidence, each witness and expert, presented by the Prosecution. The Ministry has the right to do the same when Mr Langley gives testimony in regards to the case. Each side will then be given a chance to redirect and recall any piece of evidence presented during the trial. After which, we will hear the closing arguments from both parties. Then, the esteemed Warlocks will adjourn to deliberate the facts of the case, and return to render a verdict. Judgement will fall upon Mr Langley only after all of these steps have been completed. This trial shall be fair and just, the Wizengamot promises. Let us begin. You may be seated.”

Warlock Shafiq sat first, then the Warlocks behind her, then the rest of the courtroom.

“Solicitor Granger, you have the floor.”

“Thank you, Your Honour,” said Hermione, standing again and striding purposefully over to her podium. “Members of the Wizengamot, I am here today as a representative of the Ministry of Magic. I am also here today as a representative of the victim in this case, Patricia Hebony Bartlett. Ms Bartlett can no longer speak for herself, due to the actions of the defendant, Edward Iovis Langley. Mr Langley has been charged, by my office, with Murder of the First Degree. I will prove, through the course of this trial, that not only did Edward Langley assault Patricia Bartlett in her home, but that he used Unforgivable magic upon her person which ultimately led to her death. I will prove that Mr Langley willfully, and with great malice, murdered Patricia Bartlett, regardless of whether he was actually present at the time of her death. I will prove that he used the Cruciatus Curse upon Ms Bartlett. I will prove that the implied intentions of Mr Langley’s actions justify the charges against him, and warrant him a place in Azkaban prison for the remainder of his life. My oath to the Ministry of Magic requires this of me, and I will discharge my duty justly and faithfully. A young witch’s life was ended on 21 February 2012 prematurely, cruelly, and with extreme prejudice. I shall do Patricia Bartlett justice in my explanation of the facts regarding this case, and as such, when Your Hallowed Selves adjourn to deliberate a verdict, I am confident that you will find Edward Langley guilty of murder. Thank you.”

Hermione stepped out from the podium and bowed lowly to the Warlocks. Some of them nodded at her in return, while others watched impassively. Harry frowned a bit and shifted in his seat.

“Advocate Nott?”

Theodore Nott stood up and walked slowly to his podium, pausing to look at the Warlocks above him.

“Your Honour; esteemed Warlocks of the Wizengamot. I am an Advocate with the Law Firm of Langley & O’Connell, and I am representing Edward Iovis Langley in this matter. I am defending Mr Langley against the charges put to him by the Ministry of Magic. Wrongful charges. False claims. An undeniable tragedy has occurred – a young witch has been murdered. This we do not contest. What has happened to Patricia Bartlett is a crime, and no one is more saddened by the crime than my client. He and Patricia Bartlett were great friends. Mr Langley did not wish harm upon Ms Bartlett, nor did he cause her death – willfully or otherwise. The Ministry Prosecution Office has leveled accusations against Mr Langley amounting to murder of the first degree, by use of an Unforgivable Curse. This is not true. Edward Langley did not murder Patricia Bartlett, and he did not cast the Cruciatus Curse. During the course of this trial, the Prosecution will suggest many things in regard to my client’s character and will speculate wildly as to his intentions in killing Ms Bartlett. All of it is false. I will, as Advocate for Mr Langley, provide defense in the form of character witnesses and suggestions of my own which shall illuminate Mr Langley’s innocence in this matter. Upon deliberation, I know the Warlocks presiding over this case will come to the correct conclusion and declare Edward Langley Not Guilty of all the charges against him. Thank you very much for your time.”

Nott stepped aside and made an elegant bow to the Warlocks on their benches. He then turned around and walked back to his seat next to Langley, gathering his robes in one hand as he sat down. Hermione was on her feet almost as soon as Nott was seated, taking a folder with her up to the podium. She opened the folder without looking at it, instead meeting the gaze of Warlock Shafiq.

“If it pleases Your Honour, I will now begin my examination of this case.”

“Proceed, Solicitor Granger.”

“Thank you, Your Honour. Today I will be presenting evidence gained from the body of the victim, Patricia Bartlett. I submit the body into evidence as Exhibit 1,” Harry watched as she fingered the folder in front of her. “I would like to call my first witness, to give expert testimony on the condition of Ms Bartlett’s body after she died.”

Warlock Shafiq nodded and waved a hand to the bailiff, who strode to the middle of the floor. Harry turned his head to watch as the court Aurors guarding the door opened it with their wands, shutting it again as Ravi Kohli entered the courtroom. The bailiff held out his free hand, the one not holding his wand, gesturing to the Witness Box as it stood in front of the benches for the Warlocks. Kohli stepped into the box and the bailiff shut the small gate behind him. The bailiff then pointed his wand at Kohli and signaled for the medical examiner to raise his right hand.

“Do you, Ravinandan Kohli, swear on your magic to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so mote it be?”

“I swear,” Kohli answered, and an orange light shone around his wrist in response. This was not a truth charm nor a compulsion spell, and nothing like an Unbreakable Vow. The oath was mostly for show, as Harry knew the worst it could do to a person was make them feel a little ill if they told a lie. But didn’t lies always make people uneasy? So, really, it didn’t do very much at all. This oath was, however, part of the pageantry of the court, and Harry respected it. Somewhat.

The bailiff moved back from the Witness Box as Hermione stepped forward, holding out what looked to be glossy photographs.

“If you would, please, Bailiff Armstrong,” Hermione said, relinquishing the photographs to the head court Auror. “If you would enlarge this one, please.”

Armstrong took the photographs from her, flicking his wand at the ground next to him, conjuring a stand, and casting _Engorgio_ on the one she indicated. The other two photos he swished his wand over and they floated to Warlock Shafiq, and Nott, respectively.

“A photograph of Exhibit 1, which shall be referred to hereafter as Exhibit 1-A,” Hermione clarified, moving back to the podium. “Mr Kohli, can you confirm for the court your occupation?”

“I am a Medical Examiner for the Ministry of Magic, under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. My laboratory is located in the Department of Magical Research, Level 8,” Kohli answered.

“And can you confirm that the photograph on display,” Hermione pointed to the enlarged photo on the stand Armstrong had conjured. “Is Exhibit 1-A – a photograph of the body of Patricia Bartlett?”

“Yes,” confirmed Kohli, nodding his head. “Exhibit 1-A is a photograph of the body of the victim, Patricia Bartlett. I took it myself. It is a Wizarding photograph, though you cannot tell, since I took it after she had, uh, died.” Kohli trailed off at the look Hermione was giving him.

“Thank you, Examiner Kohli,” Hermione looked away from him to address Warlock Shafiq. “I submit into evidence Exhibit 1-B – a photographic still of the jugular area in Exhibit 1-A.”

Hermione held up three copies of the next photograph, and Armstrong used his magic to present them to the court in the same manner as before.

“Examiner Kohli, can you confirm that Exhibit 1-B is, in fact, a still from the Wizarding photo you took of Exhibit 1, enlarged to show the damage to the victim’s neck and throat?”

“Yes, Exhibit 1-B is a still frame of Exhibit 1-A, enlarged to better display the jugular area of the body,” Kohli said.

“Thank you,” Hermione responded. “I now submit, for the interest of the court, Exhibit 1-C.”

Armstrong raised his wand as soon as Hermione’s hand lifted, and the photographs were distributed quickly.

“Exhibit 1-C is a photographic still of the hands of the body of Patricia Bartlett. Can you confirm this to be true, Examiner Kohli?”

“Yes, Exhibit 1-C is an enlarged still of Patricia Bartlett’s hands, taken after she had died.”

“Thank you,” Hermione addressed Warlock Shafiq once more. “Does this please the court?”

“Any objections, Advocate Nott?”

“The Defence has no objections to these exhibits, Your Honour.”

“Very good. Exhibit 1 is admitted into evidence,” Warlock Shafiq nodded in the direction of the court scribe. “You may proceed, Solicitor Granger.”

“Yes, Your Honour. I will now question Examiner Kohli as an expert witness. Examiner Kohli, was an autopsy performed on the body of Patricia Bartlett?”

“Yes, there was. I performed it myself.”

“Can you explain to the court what you found when you examined the body?”

“I concluded in my findings that Ms Bartlett had died in conjunction with Dark Magic. I discovered that she had extensive bruising on her neck and the back of her head, which I eventually linked with extensive trauma in her brain. I also found DNA evidence on her body that connects her with two other persons. I found this evidence inside the victim’s vagina and underneath her fingernails.”

Hermione motioned to Bailiff Armstrong, and he switched the photographs on the stand to Exhibit 1-B.

“Is this what you are talking about, when you mention ‘extensive bruising’ present on the victim?”

“Yes, though the extent of the bruising goes well up into the hairline at the back of the neck. I did not get a photo of that, my apologies.”

Hermione shook her head, ignoring the last part of his statement. She motioned again to Armstrong, and the photograph on the stand switched back to Exhibit 1-C.

“Is this a photograph of where you found some of the DNA evidence on Ms Bartlett’s body?”

“Yes, underneath her nails. As you can see in the photo, there is quite a bit of bruising on her fingers. The middle nail on her left hand is also cracked. This suggested to me that she was fighting her attacker.”

“What can you tell us about the pattern of bruising on the victim’s throat?”

“Well, I, uh, would point it out physically but – ah, thank you,” Armstrong had flipped the photos with his wand, but moved closer to the stand so he could point out parts of the photo in lieu of Kohli. “Yes, well, you can see right there,” Kohli had Armstrong indicate a particularly bad patch of bruising on the victim’s neck, an ugly brown in death. “There is a strong impression of a hand. From the size of the hand, and the spacing between the indentations, which I concluded to be fingers, I strongly suggest that the person who strangled Ms Bartlett was a man.”       

“Did the DNA evidence you collected from Ms Bartlett’s body also belong to a man?”

“Yes, two of them.”

“Is one of them here with us in the court today?”

“Yes,” said Kohli. “The Auror Office provided me with a sample of blood from Edward Langley, and I tested it against the DNA samples found on Ms Bartlett’s body. Two of the three samples collected matched his DNA.”

There was a collective hush in the room as the court took in this pronouncement.

“Your Honour,” Hermione said, stepping out from behind her podium. “I would like to submit into evidence Exhibit 2. Exhibit 2 is the evidence collected from a Physical Evidence Recovery Kit taken from the victim after she was admitted to St Mungo’s Hospital.”

Hermione held up two pieces of parchment, which Armstrong floated over to Warlock Shafiq and Advocate Nott. Nott took the parchment quickly, but didn’t glance at it. He must have had a copy of the results sent to his office before the trial started. Warlock Shafiq, on the other hand, reached into her robes to pull out her pince-nez, settling it upon her nose so she could peruse the findings.

“Examiner Kohli,” Hermione said, holding out a final piece of parchment, which Armstrong floated over to the Witness Box. “Is this a copy of the report concluding your DNA findings in Patricia Bartlett’s PERK?”

“Yes,” said Kohli, glancing over the paper. “Exhibit 2 is a copy of my conclusions based on the PERK collected at St Mungo’s for Ms Bartlett.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “Does this please the court, Your Honour?”

Warlock Shafiq looked up, taking her glasses off her nose. “Advocate Nott?”

“No objections, as such, Your Honour,” Nott responded.

Warlock Shafiq frowned, but nodded at Hermione.

“Exhibit 2 is admitted into evidence, Solicitor Granger.”

“Thank you, Your Honour. Examiner Kohli, can you confirm for the court, based on Exhibit 2, which samples collected from the body of Ms Bartlett matched the DNA of the defendant?”

“DNA from Mr Langley was found in the victim’s vagina and underneath her fingernails.”

“Thank you,” said Hermione, closing her folder. “I have no further questions for this witness, Your Honour.”

Warlock Shafiq nodded at Hermione, who bowed slightly at the Warlocks before returning to her seat.

“Do you wish to examine the witness, Advocate Nott?”

“I do, Your Honour.”

Nott stood up and went to stand behind his podium, grasping the sides of the top of it firmly.

“Mr Kohli,” he began. “You stated that your findings led you to conclude that the wounds on Ms Bartlett’s hands were made in self-defence. How did you come to that conclusion?”

“The severity of the bruising around the tips of her fingers, as well as the broken nail on her left hand, led me to think that they are defensive wounds.”

“Ah, the severity. To what degree would you classify something as ‘severe’?” Nott said. “From a medical standpoint. Did you find blood under the victim’s fingernails?”

“No,” Kohli said, frowning. “Not really. The blood we found on Ms Bartlett’s hand was her own – under the broken fingernail. The DNA evidence that connects your client to Ms Bartlett was skin cells. They were found under the other nails.”

“Oh, I see,” said Nott, relaxing his grip on the podium. “You found my client’s skin under her nails, and assumed it was done in reaction to some harm? Even though you also found other evidence to suggest my client and Ms Bartlett were intimate prior to her death?”

“I beg your pardon?” Kohli said. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Ah,” Nott said, and Harry could hear the smirk in his voice. “How to put this delicately.” Nott let go of the podium and folded his hands on top of it, failing to look contrite. He mostly looked a bit like a cat who’d got caught in the cream. “Have you ever had passionate sex, Mr Kohli?”

“Objection!” shouted Hermione, her eyebrows in a firm, disapproving line. “Relevance, Your Honour?”

“I apologise for my crudeness,” said Nott. “I promise my question is relevant, Your Honour.”

“I will allow it,” said Warlock Shafiq, a tad reluctant. “But watch your tongue, Advocate Nott.” She turned to look down at the Witness Box. “You will answer the question, Mr Kohli.”

“I –” Kohli was beet red. “I have had sex, Mr Nott, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“No, I apologise again. I am not asking whether you have had _sex_ , Mr Kohli. I am asking whether or not you have had _passionate_ sex. There is a difference. The difference, one could say, would be in whether or not the sex was exciting enough to cause one of the participants to scratch at the other’s skin. Have you had such sex, Examiner?”

“I understand what you are trying to imply. But are you really saying that Ms Bartlett broke her fingernail … while having passionate sex with your client?”

“I am not saying anything, Mr Kohli. I am suggesting it as a possibility. Is it technically possible for a person to get skin cells under her fingernails via this manner?”

“I guess, it’s possible …”

“Your Honour,” Hermione spoke up. “This is Speculation on the part of the witness. Mr Nott has no business asking Examiner Kohli to testify in this line of questioning!”

“Your objection is sustained, Solicitor Granger. Advocate Nott, are you quite finished?”

“Yes, Your Honour,” said Nott. “I have nothing further I wish to ask this witness.”

 

The court took a small recess after Kohli left the stand, and Harry headed outside to look for Malfoy. He didn’t see him anywhere near the courtroom, and he assumed he must not be on the Wizengamot level. Harry held up a hand to check his wristwatch, but found he didn’t have enough time to go around the Ministry in search of Malfoy if he wanted to be allowed back into the trial for the day. It was tempting, to go back up to Level Two, but he wanted to be there in support of Hermione, so eventually he trudged back inside the courtroom.

When he made it back to his seat he found that Kohli had taken up a space next to his.

“Hullo, Kohli. All right?”

“DIA Potter, good to see you. That was a bit mad, wasn’t it? Do you think it went okay?”

Harry grinned at the man reassuringly, reaching over to clap a hand on the examiner’s shoulder before sitting down next to him. It was a little easier said than done, however, as Kohli was taller than Harry.

“No, no, you were fine. Nott’s just a prick. Always has been.”

“That’s right,” Kohli said, nodding. “You lot were at Hogwarts together. Granger obviously can’t stand him. What house was he in?”

“You can’t tell?” Harry said, honestly surprised. Kohli furrowed his brow in response.

“No?”

“Nott was in Slytherin,” Harry responded. “Same as Malfoy.”

“Same as me!” said Kohli.

“What? I’d’ve pegged you as a Ravenclaw.”

Kohli scoffed. “All that knowledge, but no drive. Ravenclaw wasn’t for me. I think my mum would’ve had kittens, anyway. Very proud of our house, she is.”

“Well,” said Harry, but he was saved from trying to come up with a response as the Warlocks returned to the room, signaling the court back from recess.

 

“The Prosecution calls for its second witness, Healer Fathima Ahmed from St Mungo’s Hospital, specialist Healer in the Janus Thickey Ward for Irrevocable Spell Damage, and the attending physician to Patricia Bartlett before she died.”

Healer Ahmed looked much like she did the last time Harry had seen her, except she was not wearing an apron. Her green robes shone in the courtroom, and her voice was clear as she answered Hermione’s questions. Hermione wasted no time in presenting Exhibits 3 and 4: the Wizarding equivalent of Muggle CAT scans, or photo versions of the diagrams Kohli had conjured for Harry and Malfoy when they visited the labs. Exhibit 3 was the same diagram of Bartlett’s brain as he had seen last week, but Exhibit 4 was unfamiliar to him.

“Can you explain to the court what we are looking at, Healer Ahmed?” Hermione was saying, directing the court’s attention to Exhibit 4.

“This is a picture of one of my long-term patients in the Janus Thickey ward, taken just after she was admitted to hospital after her attack. The patient in question was tortured, at length, with the Cruciatus Curse. This is what her brain looked like just after being subjected to such Unforgivable Magic.”

“And that patient’s name?” asked Hermione, quietly. Harry felt a little sick.

“Alice Geraldine Longbottom,” responded Healer Ahmed. Harry swallowed, eyes fixed on the diagram. “She was in her early twenties when this scan was taken. Her age and condition are synonymous with those of Ms Bartlett, and I am sorry to inform the court that if Patricia Bartlett had lived, she would most likely have been in a similar state to that of Mrs Longbottom for the rest of her natural life.” Ahmed said this with very little inflection, but Harry could see that her hands were balled up into fists.

Hermione asked Healer Ahmed to explain what the diagrams meant, and went on to emphatically state that it was the use of the Cruciatus Curse that killed Bartlett.

“I have concluded the reason that Ms Bartlett succumbed to her injuries,” Healer Ahmed later informed the court. “Rather than live on like Alice Longbottom, is due to the Curse being cast, wandlessly, very close to her brain. The fact that the perpetrator was able to wrap his hands around her neck, causing his fingers to touch her spine, allowed for the Curse to almost immediately course up her nerves and into the brain. Death was not instantaneous. Instead, she lingered. I attempted to stop the hemorrhaging, but one of the ugly side-effects of the Cruciatus Curse is that the body, long after the Curse has actually stopped being cast, continues to behave as if it is still being tortured. These effects are much like a seizure, and one of these focal seizures caused a rupture in her brain that could not be reversed. There is enough evidence to suggest that she died in tremendous pain, even though it was almost two days after she was attacked.”

“Thank you, Healer Ahmed,” Hermione said, meeting the gaze of Warlock Shafiq unwaveringly. “No further questions.”

**~*~**


	6. The Wizengamot v E Langley, day two

**~*~**

The second day of the trial of Edward Langley started the same as the first. Hermione called her next witness, and DIA Malfoy entered the courtroom with his robes billowing slightly behind him, striding confidently to the Witness Box. Once Malfoy was sworn in, Hermione prompted him to recount the investigation, and Malfoy answered her questions calmly and efficiently. Malfoy also went into detail describing the steps that led him and Harry to arrest Langley for murder; namely, them finding out Langley and Bartlett had dinner together and that Langley was the last person to see Bartlett before Vicky found her. When Hermione was finished questioning Malfoy, it briefly looked like Nott would not do a cross-examination – much like how he had not questioned Healer Ahmed the day before – but eventually Nott stood up, requesting permission to examine the witness.

“DIA Malfoy,” Nott said, smiling coolly.

“Advocate Nott,” Malfoy responded, tilting his chin up. His hair was plastered away from his face today, though not as severely as he had worn it when they’d all been at school, and Harry thought he looked quite dashing.

Malfoy was wearing the official red and black Auror uniform, a change from the plainclothes the Detective Aurors usually preferred, and he’d added black leather gloves to complete the look – in truth, because the courtrooms were a bit on the chilly side, but Harry was the only one who knew that. Malfoy met Nott’s gaze unflinchingly, but Harry could see a smirk teasing around the edges of his mouth.

It was times like this that Harry was reminded how damn small the Wizarding World really was. They’d just seen Nott and Millicent at New Year’s, at a party Parkinson had thrown. Nott had gotten a bit sloshed and spent an hour showing Harry a fold-out ream of Wizarding photos of his kids. Three of them, all girls, with Nott’s tawny skin and Millicent’s black hair. The youngest had got Nott’s eyes, and they’d spent a fair amount of time drunkenly comparing the colour of Nott’s green to that of Harry’s own eyes.

“You testified that you and your partner, DIA Potter, searched Patricia Bartlett’s flat for foreign DNA, is that correct?” Malfoy said it was. “Did you find DNA evidence that places my client, Mr Edward Langley, in Ms Bartlett’s flat?”

“No,” said Malfoy, reluctantly. “We did not. In fact, we found DNA evidence of Patricia Bartlett in every room but the bedroom of her own flat. The bedroom of Ms Bartlett’s flat, the bed in particular, was suspiciously without sufficient DNA evidence to place _anyone_ in it, regardless of the fact that Patricia Bartlett was on the bed when she was found. This led us to suspect Cleaning Magic of some kind, and we tested for it accordingly.”

Malfoy paused, and Nott waved a hand at him. “Yes, you testified that the Bartletts own a House Elf.”

“Correct,” Malfoy confirmed. “But as I mentioned, we ruled out Pippy as having cleaned the flat before we were able to search it.”

Nott pursed his lips, nodding to himself as he paced a little in front of his podium.

“So, to clarify: DIA Malfoy, did you find DNA evidence in Patricia Bartlett’s flat that physically places my client, Edward Langley, there at the scene of the crime?”

“No,” said Malfoy. “But, again, the lack of evidence has led us to conclude that her attacker used a Cleaning Charm to remove such physical evidence from the bedroom.”

Nott ignored him, moving back toward his desk. “Thank you, Detective. Nothing further.”

 

Warlock Shafiq released Malfoy from the Witness Box and he left the floor, walking up into the galley. Harry sat up a bit straighter and raised his hand, but Malfoy was already heading unerringly toward him. Harry removed his wadded up outer-robe from the chair next to him, the same one Kohli had occupied yesterday, motioning for Malfoy to take the seat.

“Good show,” Harry said fondly, leaning over to whisper in Malfoy’s ear as the blond man sat down. Malfoy reached over to clasp a hand over one of Harry’s knees, squeezing gently.

“Always appreciate your support, Potter,” Malfoy responded quietly, turning his attention to the floor. Hermione was calling for her next witness, and the galley was craning to watch as the small wizard in question entered the room.

Pierre Comeau was wearing bright ochre robes with a matching bowler hat, and Harry could hear Malfoy huff in laughter next to him. Comeau was waving to his wife, who was sitting in the galley, on the opposite side of the room from Harry and Malfoy. She matched him, colour and hat, though her headwear was much more feminine and had white feathers sticking out from one side. Harry thought they looked sweet.

The bailiff ushered Comeau to the Witness Box, and Hermione began to question him in regards to seeing Langley with Bartlett in the Paramount. He answered much the same as he had when Harry and Malfoy had spoken with him, so Harry found his mind wandering. His eyes settled on Langley, sitting next to Nott, and Harry frowned a bit as he observed the defendant.

The most notable thing about Langley was the absence of Ms Fawcett in the galley behind him. She had not been there yesterday either, and Harry nearly rolled his eyes at himself for not noticing sooner. He leant toward Malfoy, keeping his voice low.

“Fawcett testifying?”

“Yes,” responded Malfoy, just as quietly. “Hermione mentioned she had been called for the defence. Tomorrow, I believe.”

“Merlin,” Harry breathed. “I was right, wasn’t I?”

“We will see,” Malfoy said, but he didn’t sound convinced. Harry couldn’t see that Fawcett would be anything but soppy on the stand. “I know what you’re thinking,” Malfoy whispered, turning his head so his nose brushed against Harry’s ear. “But she’s a crucial character witness, even if her family doesn’t have seats on the Wizengamot. Theo would be a fool not to call her – I’ll bet you she’s going to alibi him for the time of the attack.”

Harry groaned, shaking his head. That’s _just_ what they needed. All the forensic evidence would be worthless if Fawcett vouched for Langley in the Box.

Before Harry could say anything more, Nott stood up and went behind his podium. Malfoy made a soft noise, urging Harry to be quiet so he could listen to the cross-examination.

“Mr Comeau,” Nott was saying. “So very pleased to see you, and your lovely wife, as well.”

There was a soft titter from the galley, and Harry’s eyes pinpointed a blushing Mrs Comeau before searching out Hermione. Hermione’s brow was creased, and her mouth was half open, as if she was contemplating whether she should say something. Harry wondered if flirting was grounds for an objection.

“Just a few questions about how you saw my client leave the Paramount with Ms Bartlett,” said Nott. “Was there loud music playing at the time?”

“Yes, but the music is much quieter in the Floo Room.”

“Where were you standing when you saw them leave together? Were you in the Floo Room with them?”

“No, I was standing at the host –”

“Yes, I see, so you did not actually see them leave the restaurant by Floo. Nor whether they went to the same destination. You only saw them enter the Floo Room, correct?”

“Oui,” Comeau said, looking flustered. “ _Yes_ , yes, I saw them leave the restaurant and go into the Floo Room.”

“Thank you, Mr Comeau, for your clarification. That is all, Your Honour.”

Hermione was looking positively livid, and Harry felt her ire all the way in the galley. It really did seem as if Nott was trying to suggest that Langley did not go home with Bartlett. Honestly, if they didn’t go to Bartlett’s flat, where did they have sex? It didn’t fit the timeline. Harry crossed his arms over his chest grumpily.

 

The next witness for the Prosecution was called, and Harry watched as a tall, thin witch entered the courtroom. She was older, but she walked with confidence, her white hair piled on top of her head in a Gibson bun. Her robes were dark, and she wore them in a style that reminded Harry of Minerva McGonagall.

“Your name?” Hermione asked the witch once she had taken her place in the Witness Box.

“Doctor Wilhelmina Christianson,” said the witch in a no-nonsense tone. “I am a Researcher of Magical Essences, employed by the Ministry of Magic.”

“Would you please explain to the court your qualifications on the subject?”

“I have been a scientist for almost fifty years. I graduated from Hogwarts in 1960, and I received a Doctorate in Physics from Cambridge University in 1975. I then worked with the Department of Mysteries, conducting Confidential Research, until 1995. I took a leave of absence from the Ministry in ’95 to go to America. I received my Doctorate in Chemistry from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in 2000, while also teaching Advanced Magical Theory at the Salem Witches’ Institute. I returned to England after the Second War and resumed my work for the Ministry. I have been a Researcher on Level Eight for about ten years, now.”

 “Thank you,” said Hermione. “You are the one that tested the magic found in Patricia Bartlett’s flat?”

“That is correct,” Dr Christianson answered. “I took the essences that Detective Inspector Aurors Malfoy and Potter captured in the flat and translated them. Then I matched them with the control samples of the persons involved in the case.”

“And what did you find?”

“I found that there were three unique resonances present in Ms Bartlett’s home. One was matched to her, another was matched to a House Elf, and another was from an intruder.”

Hermione, who had been lingering in front of her podium, walked behind it and opened a folder she’d placed there. She pulled out some parchment and motioned for the bailiff. Bailiff Armstrong floated two reports into the air, one for Warlock Shafiq and one for Nott. Hermione walked the third over to Dr Christianson, handing the pieces of parchment to the older witch personally.

“I submit this report into evidence as Exhibit 5, Your Honour,” Hermione said, turning back to the Witness Box. “Dr Christianson, is Exhibit 5 a copy of the report you filed with the Ministry?”

“Yes,” Dr Christianson answered, flipping through the pages. “This is my report.”

Hermione paused and looked to Warlock Shafiq. The Warlock nodded, her pince-nez on her face as she read through the parchment.

“Advocate?”

“I find no fault with this Exhibit, Your Honour,” said Nott.

“Let the record state that Exhibit 5, a report on the magical essences recovered from Patricia Bartlett’s flat, has been admitted into evidence. Solicitor Granger, you may continue.”

“Thank you, Your Honour,” Hermione said, striding back to her podium and picking up her own copy of the report. She pointed to it, resuming her questions. “Dr Christianson, can you confirm that what you just told the court is present in this report?”

“Yes,” said Dr Christianson. “Pages two and three contain the relevant information regarding the unique resonances. Page one is an outline of the controls used.”

“And what do you mean by ‘control’?”

“By ‘control’ I mean the base samples collected in order to test them against what was found in the residence. There were two controls used – one was from Ms Bartlett’s wand, the other was collected by myself from the defendant, Mr Langley.”

“You testified that there were three unique resonances collected?”

“Yes, that is correct. The device we made for the Auror Office has some basic controls added to it – very general, you understand, the device is more of a collection box than something that could be used to truly analyse data. These basic controls are to establish the type of magic collected. House Elves, for example, are one of these basic controls. Their magic is different from witches and wizards, and thus easily distinguishable for the device.”

“You developed the device the Aurors used in Patricia Bartlett’s flat?” Hermione asked, clearly curious despite herself. It was new information for Harry, as well.

“Yes, with a team of Unspeakables in 1989. Some of the research has since been declassified, so I can explain the related facts to you. We were working on magic related to the Trace – you are all familiar with the Trace?”

“I am,” Hermione said, but she looked to Warlock Shafiq.

“I believe we can consider the Trace to be general knowledge,” answered the presiding Warlock.

“Good,” said Dr Christianson. “As part of the research, we developed the device – called a Resonator – which captures magical signatures and stores them for testing. Each Auror team is given a Resonator, and we add their essences to it as a control. To rule them out, of course, in case they have to use magic wherever they are trying to collect a sample. The default controls are Beings and Beasts with unique magic that are common around Britain. House Elves, Kneazles, types of Fey, etcetera. Once the device is turned on, it reads the magical frequencies in the air – I won’t explain how, but if you have the knowledge, resonances are a bit like radiation and can be detected in a similar manner. After testing for magical frequencies, the Resonator produces a print-out with some very basic findings. The print-out can also show errors. I mentioned radiation: If the Resonator is in an area with too much interference, the print-out will display an error. In the case of Patricia Bartlett’s flat, the Resonator’s preliminary findings showed two types of Wizard magic, as well as positively identifying House Elf magic. The two types of Wizard magic found were: Standard, benign magic, which I matched to Patricia Bartlett, and a very large sample of Dark Magic.”

“Were you able to identify who cast the Dark Magic found in Ms Bartlett’s flat?” Hermione asked.

“As I indicated in my report,” Dr Christianson held up her copy. “I have concluded that Mr Langley was the most likely candidate to cast the Dark Magic. The resonance collected from Ms Bartlett’s flat has several good markers in common with the samples I obtained from Mr Langley.”

“Can you state the likelihood of a test such as this resulting in a false match?” asked Hermione.

“It is virtually impossible. Perhaps a few years ago, I would not have been so certain, but now, I have no doubts in the validity of the data.”

“Thank you, Dr Christianson,” Hermione said, nodding her head. “Nothing further, Your Honour.”

As soon as Hermione had sat back down, Nott was on his feet requesting a cross-examination. He did not stand by his podium, instead he stood about halfway between the desk where his client was sitting and the Witness Box.

“‘Virtually impossible’ to make a mistake – that’s what you said, Doctor? ‘Virtually impossible’, and yet, you also testified that my client, Mr Langley, was the ‘most _likely_ candidate’. Were there other candidates?”

“No,” said Dr Christianson, frowning. “That’s not quite what I meant. The sample of magical essence I collected from Mr Langley matches the Dark Magic found in the residence of Patricia Bartlett.”

“You did not answer my question,” Nott said. “Were there other candidates? We have had prior testimony that Ms Bartlett was sexually active with two men the night she was attacked. Did you test the magic of this other wizard against the Dark Magic found at the scene of the crime?”

“No, I was only commissioned to test against samples of magic collected from the defendant, Mr Langley, and a House Elf belonging to the Bartlett family.”

“I see,” said Nott. Harry shifted in his chair uneasily. “If I could have the court scribe read back Dr Christianson’s testimony regarding Mr Langley as a match? Something to do with ‘markers’?”

Warlock Shafiq turned to look down at the court scribe, motioning for him to read the transcript.

“Dr Christianson testified that ‘The resonance collected from Ms Bartlett’s flat has several good markers in common with the samples I obtained from Mr Langley’,” said the scribe.

“Thank you,” Nott said, moving forward so he was closer to the Witness Box. “What did you mean, Dr Christianson, by ‘several good markers’?”

Dr Christianson looked uncomfortable, and Harry saw her look at Hermione. Hermione shut her eyes in response, her shoulders slumping minutely.

Dr Christianson cleared her throat, responding slowly.

“It is not a perfect science, Advocate Nott, identifying Dark Magic. As you can imagine, it is quite difficult to obtain legal samples to conduct tests on. Furthermore, a wizard’s Dark Magic is vastly different from standard, benign magic. For obvious reasons, I could not collect a sample of your client, Mr Langley, casting a Dark spell. As such, I collected samples of what could be termed ‘Light magic’. The results, technically, are not a perfect match to the Dark Magic cast in Ms Bartlett’s flat.”

“Ah,” said Nott, smiling coolly. “To clarify, you could not match the Dark Magic with the sample submitted by the defendant?”

“I could not match it _definitively_ ,” Dr Christianson responded, her back ramrod straight. “Even though the samples did not match in composition, the markers that did match are irrefutable. The samples of Mr Langley’s wandless magic, for instance, though erratic, are particularly good matches.”

“Erratic?” Nott said, his brows creasing. Harry thought he might have said this involuntarily.

“Yes,” Dr Christianson answered anyway, continuing to explain. “Mr Langley, as he informed me several times, cannot perform wandless magic. His results for the sample are erratic in nature. Imperfectly cast, if you will. Coincidentally, this nature better matches the Dark Magic collected. The Dark Magic resonance found at the scene of the crime has several similarities with Accidental Magic. Mr Langley’s wandless attempts mimic these indicators, resulting in his magic _strongly matching_ the Dark Magic found in the residence of Patricia Bartlett.”

Harry watched as Nott’s face became carefully blank at the words ‘Accidental Magic’. Harry’s eyes shot to Langley, and he caught a quick, stunned look of surprise on Langley’s face before the defendant schooled himself back to the bored, unaffected look he’d been wearing for most of the trial. Harry nudged Malfoy with his arm, but Malfoy shushed him, closing a hand around Harry’s elbow tightly.

“No further questions,” Nott said sharply, his robes billowing around him as he returned to his chair.

~*~

Later that evening, Harry was pacing a line up and down the middle of Hermione’s office.

“If you plead him, ‘Mione, he’ll be out of Azkaban and chatting up women faster than a Snitch! He’s done this twice now. Twice!”

“I know that, Harry,” Hermione said from where she was leaning against her artificial window. “I don’t like the idea any more than you do. But it’s not going well – Nott is systematically destroying my evidence. You weren’t watching the Warlocks when he went after Christianson. I’m worried that if I don’t plea Langley, he won’t do any time at all.”

“He killed Patricia Bartlett!” Harry cried, throwing up his hands. “He murdered her with an Unforgivable!”

“Harry –” Hermione said, looking stricken.

“You take a plea, Hermione,” Harry continued, unrelenting. “But _you_ have to tell the Bartletts. And _Pippy_! I won’t be a pallbearer on this!”

 There was a short silence in the room while Hermione and Harry glared angrily at each other.

“Three years,” Malfoy said, breaking the quiet. “Their daughter’s life for three years in prison?”

Hermione let out a great sigh and rubbed one hand down her face.

“The fiancée. She takes the stand tomorrow. I won’t approach Nott until after her testimony,” Hermione conceded, giving them a little more time. For whatever good it was worth.

“Ten-to-one, she’s gonna alibi him,” Harry said, still sulking. Malfoy reached out and caught the edge of his coat, pulling him toward the other chair in front of Hermione’s desk.

“Sit down, Potter. You storming about isn’t helping anyone.”

Harry sat, and Malfoy resumed his former position, hands folded in his lap with one leg crossed over the other.

“What are you going to do, Hermione?” Malfoy said.

“If she alibis him, as Harry suggests. I’ll try to trip her up. It’s the only thing I can do. Even if _we_ know he has done this twice now, the Wizengamot doesn’t.”

“And why not?” Harry spoke up. “Why not get Andrews in the Box?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “We’ve gone over this, Potter –” he started.

“It’s impossible, Harry,” Hermione finished. “I _tried_ , remember?”

Harry did remember, but it wasn’t fair. Hermione had called for an evidence hearing, but Warlock Shafiq had dismissed the claim – the Obliviator’s records were sealed; there were no official charges filed against Langley. The Boden incident was inadmissible in court.

“It’s wrong,” was Harry’s reply.

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested in how the Comeaus are dressed, I picture them wearing outfits based on [this painting](http://inkspottedtea.tumblr.com/post/157961653736/moritz-stifter-noble-lady) by Moritz Stifter! The tag on my tumblr, "wvl&o" has other pictures related to the fic, as well, but there are SPOILERS for upcoming scenes ... so be aware of that if you browse it! :)


	7. The Wizengamot v E Langley, days three & four

~*~ 

The third day of the Trial of Edward Langley saw Nott beginning the testimony for the Defence. Harry was in a particularly bad mood, made worse because Malfoy had been ignoring him since they entered the Ministry building.

“I wonder what she’ll be wearing,” Malfoy mused, interrupting Harry voicing his, very important, concerns for the day.

“I – what? What are you on about?”

“Fawcett, Potter, do keep up.”

“Why would I care what the bloody hell she’s wearing, Malfoy, when she’s going to ruin the case. That murderer is going to –”

“Her hat, Potter. I would wager that whatever she’s got on her head will make the _Prophet_ front-page while her testimony will be page 3.”

“What?” Harry was thoroughly confused, which just made him angrier. Honestly, Malfoy knew this!

“Shush,” was all Malfoy said, reaching over to place his hand on Harry’s leg. “They’re milliners, Potter. Her family owns Fawcett’s Sons & Co Hatters – have done for generations. Almost every hat in this courtroom is a design of theirs: Comeau and his wife had on Fawcett’s, most _certainly_. There’s a shop in Diagon Alley, just a small one, Mother gets all her hats there. Fawcett’s Basement – I know I’ve pointed it out before. They specialise in women’s headwear at that location. Personally, I think they should rename it ‘Fawcett’s Fascinators’, but I suppose not everyone honours alliteration as they ought.”

Harry declined to comment.

 

“The Defence calls Alicia Fawcett to Testify,” Nott said.

The courtroom fell into a bustle, and irritatingly, Harry could hear some curious whispers regarding what hat Fawcett might have on. According to the buzz, she didn’t disappoint.

Alicia Fawcett was a witch to whom elegance came effortlessly. She had the type of countenance which people described as an ‘English Rose’, and today was no exception. She was a frail woman, and Harry remembered she had mentioned to them that she was often ill. The robes she was wearing went all the way up to her chin, and the skirt she was wearing was full, almost as if to hide how thin her figure was. She had on a blue and white jacket with substantial embellishments, and the same design was mirrored on her skirt. She looked very fashionable, even to someone wholly ignorant about _la mode_ , as Harry was. Malfoy was nodding appreciatively beside him, so Harry knew he agreed.

As promised, her hat was just as intricately decorated. It curved demurely away from her face, showing off her pinned-up tawny curls on one side, while the other was piled with flowers (Harry did not know whether they were real or not) and what looked to be peacock feathers shooting up into the air.

She took a seat in the Witness Box daintily, folding her hands over each other in her lap. The lace sleeves of her gown fell over them, but Harry did notice she was wearing cream-coloured gloves, causing him to think that she must also feel that the courtrooms were a bit chilly, same as Malfoy did. Harry uncharitably thought of how annoying delicate, pureblood constitutions were.

“Ms Fawcett,” Nott began. “Can you tell the court where you were the night Patricia Bartlett was attacked?”

“I was at home, in my townhouse in Cheshire Alley,” answered the lady, her voice subdued.

“Were you alone?”

“No,” said Fawcett. “The defendant, Mr Edward Langley, was with me.”

“Had he been with you all night?”

Harry watched as Fawcett pinked a bit at this question, ducking her head before answering.

“No, no. He came late in the evening and then left, after saying goodnight.”

“Ah,” Nott said, shifting behind his podium. “I meant, Ms Fawcett, what time did you see Mr Langley?”

“Oh,” Fawcett breathed, and sat up straighter. “Yes, of course. Mr Langley arrived at 1 o’clock and left a few hours later, in the early morning.”

“Did he say why he had come to your house, especially at such an hour?”

“Yes,” answered Fawcett, nodding her head. “He came to tell me that he and Ms Bartlett had dined together. Against my wishes. He felt guilty about seeing her, and had to come tell me right away.”

“The defendant told you that he had dined with Ms Bartlett, but he’d come to confess his indiscretions to you right away?”

“Objection!” Hermione broke in, raising her hand. “Leading the witness, Your Honour.”

Warlock Shafiq nodded at Hermione before turning to Nott.

“Sustained. Mr Nott, you will rephrase your question.”

“My apologies, Your Honour,” said Nott. He cleared his throat and walked out from behind his podium, grasping his hands together behind his back. “Ms Fawcett, did my client tell you the sequence of events that led to him coming to see you so late at night?”

“Y-yes,” Fawcett said, pinking again. “Edward had dinner and drinks with Ms Bartlett. He told me they’d left the restaurant via Floo.”

“Did Mr Langley tell you that he and Ms Bartlett had sexual relations that night?”

“Yes,” she said, obviously mortified. “Edward told me that they had – that they’d had sex in the restroom of the Paramount, before leaving. Before coming to see me.”

“And how did Mr Langley seem to you? Was he upset?”

“He was most distraught,” Fawcett answered, lifting her hands to wring them. “Edward was so afraid he would lose my trust, so he came to tell me right away what had happened.”

“Did you forgive him right away?” Nott asked.

“No, I did not,” said Fawcett. “We talked for hours. The sun was out when we finally came to an understanding.”

“Thank you, for your clarification of the events, Ms Fawcett. What else can you tell the court about Mr Langley?”

“Edward is the kindest person,” Fawcett sighed, placing her hands back in her lap calmly.

She then proceeded to talk, at length, about the many virtues of Edward Langley. As predicted, she was the principle character witness for Langley as well as his alibi for the attack. Finally, Hermione was able to cross-examine her.

“Ms Fawcett,” Hermione said, standing confidently behind her podium. “Do you know what time, precisely, Mr Langley arrived at your home?”

“No, only that it was after 1 o’clock. I went to bed that night at eleven, but was woken up again by Edward calling.”

“How did you know he was at your house?”

“My House Elf, Grisley, informed me that he was at the door.”

“He was at the door?” asked Hermione, calmly, though Harry’s heart had leapt into his throat.

“Yes, he’d come running over. He was very distraught, as I said, and his hair was all a mess.”

“Mr Langley came to your door that night? He did not arrive via Floo?”

“No,” confirmed Fawcett, beginning to look a little nervous.

“I see. Do you know how he got from the restaurant to your house, if not by Floo?”

“N-no,” Fawcett said, and Harry watched as she turned her head to look at the defendant’s table. “Edward only said he had come right away, that he was so sorry that he’d seen Ms Bartlett.”

“So sorry he’d had sex with her?” Hermione said, a tad facetiously. Fawcett blushed again. “If he was so sorry, why did he do it?”

At this, Fawcett sat up straight in her seat, puffing her chest out.

“Edward and Ms Bartlett had been drinking. He could not account for his actions properly, only that what had happened, happened. He was very distraught and apologised to me immediately. That is all I know on the matter.”

“I see,” Hermione said, looking to Warlock Shafiq. “No more questions today, Your Honour.”

After Fawcett was released, she sat in the galley directly behind Langley, listening patiently as Nott called other witnesses to attest to Langley’s strength of character.

And he called a lot. Apparently, there were many wizards willing to testify as to what an upstanding member of society Langley was, and how no one could imagine him perpetrating such an act of violence. Even the current Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Alastor Gumboil, was called to testify as to Langley’s performance in his classes.

           

By the end of the day, Harry’s temper had settled into a sort of resigned melancholy, and Malfoy wasn’t much better. They were both surprised when Hermione ambushed them outside the courtroom, her eyes glowing with purpose.

“Get Fawcett, bring her to my office,” Hermione said urgently before dashing off toward the lifts.

Harry and Malfoy set off to do as they’d been told. They fetched Fawcett and brought her to Hermione’s office, which had the curtains drawn and a warm fire in the grate. On the solicitor’s desk was a stone bowl Harry immediately recognised, a silk cloth placed over the top.

“This is highly irregular,” Fawcett said as she sat down in the chair offered to her. Harry and Malfoy moved to stand at the back of the room. “I have nothing more to say to you, Solicitor Granger.”

“Ms Fawcett, there is something you must see,” Hermione said, unconcerned. “And I am speaking to you now as a woman, a fellow witch, not as a solicitor for the Wizengamot.”

Hermione lifted the cloth off of the bowl and a faint blue light began to illuminate the desk. Fawcett let out a soft gasp as she watched. Hermione pushed the bowl so it was closer to the other woman.

“I would like you to meet Sunny Boden,” Hermione said softly. “Please.”

“I –” Fawcett began, pausing to swallow. “I am afraid.”

Hermione looked up at Harry, meeting his eyes.

“Would you feel better if DIA Potter went with you?”

“Harry Potter?” Fawcett said, turning in her chair to look at Harry. “Yes,” she admitted quietly. “I would.”

Harry nodded, going to stand at the side of Fawcett’s chair, looking back to catch Malfoy’s eyes. Fawcett removed her large hat with trembling hands, placing it down on the second chair. She then bent over into the Pensieve, and Harry did the same.

Falling into a Pensieve was never pleasant, no matter how many times Harry did it. The world inside memories was always dull, and a bit blurry around the edges. He felt confined by the dreamlike quality of the spaces created by memories, too, as they reminded him of the phantom King’s Cross station he’d gone to when he’d died.

The scene they’d fallen into was incongruous with these feelings, however, as it was of a sunny English sitting room in the suburbs. The room was covered in knick-knacks, knitting supplies, and the walls were plastered with a very gaudy floral paper. Everything was obviously Muggle, though neither of the two women in the memory looked out of place in the small room. Fawcett was still trembling, so Harry reached over and put an arm around her shoulders gently. She quieted under his touch.

Of the two women seated in the parlour, one of them had a heavy brace around her neck. She was young, blonde, and was holding onto a wad of tissues as if they were a lifeline. The other woman Harry recognised as Obliviator Andrews, and she looked almost the same as when Harry had met her. Long orange scarf and all, though her bucket cap was on the sofa next to her.

“It’s good of you to say that,” said the memory of Sunny Boden, speaking to Andrews. “So many,” she hiccupped. “So many people have dismissed me. The other police won’t speak to me, you know, they act as if they don’t know what I’m on about.”

This was, of course, because of the Obliviators, but there was no emotion besides sympathy on Andrews’ face in the memory.

“I know, petal, I know. Just take a deep breath, there’s a girl. I need you to tell me what happened. It’s not your fault, of course not. Deep breaths, there you go.”

“I met Ned at a uni mixer,” Boden said haltingly, taking deep breaths. “He’s very fit, you know? All my friends wanted a go at him, and at first I wasn’t interested. Playin’ hard to get, like. So, I stepped out on the balcony, for a fag. He followed me, offered a light. Very charming,” Boden sighed, biting her lip. “Very _silly_.”

“Go on,” Andrews said soothingly. “You’re doing well.”

“I invited him back to my flat. My first time doing that – I. I don’t know I’ll ever do that again – I shouldn’t have, but he was so posh, I just.” She paused, biting her lips and closing her eyes. “I’m inexperienced,” Boden choked out, shaking her head back and forth. “I didn’t know what I was doing. He wanted oral, a blow job. I tried, I did. But, he got angry when I said I wanted to stop. He tried to f-force me.”

Boden gave a great sob and brought her clump of tissues up to her face, bowing her head. Next to Harry, Fawcett made a similar sound before she smothered it behind a handkerchief. Harry gripped her shoulder tightly.

“What happened next, love?” Andrews said after Boden had quieted a bit.

“He – Ned. He pushed my head,” Boden said, gasping. “He choked me! I couldn’t breathe, I thought I was going to die. Everything went dim. I woke up in hospital – he’d broken something.” She brought two fingers up to gesture at her brace. “They say I’ll always sound like this – like I’ve got a cold. He broke my voice box, with the choking.”

Fawcett moaned and tried to move out of Harry’s grip, but Harry held firm.

“Don’t, don’t,” he said, rubbing one of her arms with his other hand. “You’ll hurt yourself. Let’s go out, come on, with me now.”

Harry pulled Fawcett out of the memory gently, catching her as she slumped against him back in Hermione’s office. Hermione rushed forward, same as Malfoy, helping to guide Fawcett to a chair. Malfoy went around and threw the cloth back over the Pensieve, moving it back to the middle of the desk.

“Oh, oh,” Fawcett was saying, crying into her hands. “Oh, _Edward_.”

~*~

“Ms Fawcett,” Hermione said, standing between her podium and the Witness Box. “I have recalled you so that we might reexamine the testimony you gave to the court yesterday.”

Fawcett nodded, looking somber behind the veiled hat she was wearing, a staunch change from her attire in court the day before.

“Ms Fawcett, you testified yesterday that Mr Langley came to your door at 1 in the morning the night that Patricia Bartlett was attacked. Is this the truth?”

“No,” Alicia Fawcett said, lifting her chin up. “I was mistaken, and have now remembered the actual time. Mr Langley did not arrive at my house until after three o’clock Tuesday morning.”

“Do you know how Mr Langley arrived at your building?” Hermione said, looking up at the Warlocks on their benches.

“He arrived on foot,” said Fawcett, her grey and purple robes contrasting against her fair skin. “He was worn out, distraught. His hair was in disarray, he told me, because he ran to my house from Patricia Bartlett’s.”

“The defendant, Mr Edward Langley, told you he came to your house from the flat of Patricia Bartlett?”

“Yes,” Fawcett pronounced, damningly. “He told me he had hurt Ms Bartlett.” She paused, moving her head once, haltingly, to glance at Langley. “I’m not stupid. I was in Ravenclaw; top of my class at Hogwarts. I know what people think of me, of women like me. But I am _not_ stupid. Mr Langley told me it was an accident. But how can someone reeking of Dark Magic like he was, absolutely _polluting_ my home with it – how can someone stinking so foully have done it by _accident_?”

“You suspected Mr Langley of having used the Dark Arts that night, Ms Fawcett?”

“Yes,” Fawcett confirmed. “I received an O on my Defence Against the Dark Arts NEWT. I also passed the Curse-Breaker Exam for Gringotts Wizarding Bank, but my health does not permit me to take up my vocation. I _know_ Dark Magic when confronted with it. Mr Langley practiced the Dark Arts before coming to my home, on foot, early Tuesday morning last week.”

Hermione was still watching the Warlocks, her head held high as she met each of their eyes. She folded her hands in front of her and made her way back to her seat.

“No further questions.”

~*~

The Warlocks took three hours to deliberate the case. When Warlock Shafiq called the court back into session, Harry was a tangle of nerves and not even Malfoy could assuage him. Hermione looked calm and poised in her seat, however, and Harry tried to calm himself. He hated waiting. Three hours and twelve minutes was too short a time for this kind of thing, Harry was sure.

“Has the Wizengamot reached a verdict?” said Warlock Shafiq, addressing her colleagues.

The Warlock on the end, closest to where Harry and Malfoy were seated in the galley, stood up. He was a portly wizard with a long, white beard.

“We have,” the Warlock announced, his voice ringing out in the near silent courtroom.

“Will the defendant please rise?” said Warlock Shafiq.

Langley and his advocate stood, solemn behind their desk.

“As to the sole count of the indictment, Murder of the First Degree, how does the Wizengamot find?” asked Warlock Shafiq.

“As to the sole count of the indictment, we find the defendant, Edward Iovis Langley, guilty.”

There was an uproar in the court, and Harry watched as Langley closed his eyes against it. In the galley, Mr and Mrs Bartlett were calling out at the pronouncement, weeping openly, with Mrs Bartlett clinging to her husband. Warlock Shafiq banged her gavel.

“Edward Langley, you have been found guilty of Murder of the First Degree. The court remands you to the care of Azkaban prison until your sentencing. Bailiff,” the head Warlock motioned for the court Auror, who called the two guards from the door to come help him escort Langley from the room.

 

Harry let out a great sigh, and Malfoy slung an arm around Harry’s shoulders.

“Well, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Shall we head out?”

“Yeah,” Harry smiled. “I’m following you.”

~*~  

 


	8. Coronach

~*~

Harry _hated_ funerals. He hated attending them, hated speaking at them, but, most of all, he hated seeing the victim’s family at them. The family were always huddled, smiling tremulously, but their eyes were always guarded. Harry could always tell that they did not, for one instant, believe the platitudes people were giving.

For one reason or another, Harry had been one of those well-meaning people on and off since he was fourteen. Regardless of how many times he had to stand in front of someone’s parents, parents who had lost their child to senseless violence, he never knew what to say. He didn’t want to spout some meaningless platitude, especially one that he, too, didn’t believe was true. It didn’t get better – you didn’t wake up one day and suddenly feel cured of your grief – it just faded, and you eventually were able to get out of bed again and move on with your life. Harry carried so many dead with him, he had so many spectres on his shoulders, and so he felt he _should_ know what to say in these situations. Harry felt as if he, out of everyone, should know the right words to bring comfort. But he didn’t. And so,

“I am sorry for your loss,” Harry said, shaking Mr Bartlett’s hand.

“Thank you,” the older wizard said, his eyes blank.

“You caught him,” Mrs Bartlett said, her gloved hands clutching at Harry’s. “You’ve brought my Tricia peace.”

Harry nodded awkwardly, squeezing Mrs Bartlett’s hands.

“Love,” her husband said, wrapping an arm around his wife’s shoulders.

“Thank you, DIA Potter. Thank you,” Mrs Bartlett let go of Harry’s hands and turned to the next person in the queue.

The day of Patricia Bartlett’s funeral was clear and cold, almost a week to the day that Edward Langley was convicted of murdering her. The Bartletts were from Lancashire, and the funeral was being held on their modest estate, in the family graveyard where they would bury their daughter.

Harry caught up with Malfoy, who had gone through the gate first. Harry rubbed his hands together, watching as Malfoy paused to speak to someone who had just come up the path behind Harry. He lingered back, turning up the collar of his robes against the air.

Malfoy had stopped to talk with Nott, of all people.

Harry walked forward and inserted himself at Malfoy’s elbow, reaching a hand out to the Advocate.

“Nott,” Harry said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Potter,” Nott returned, shaking Harry’s hand firmly.

“The Bartletts are related to the Warringtons,” Malfoy broke in, tilting his head toward Harry. “So is Theo.”

“Ah,” Harry said, shoving his hands in his pockets. “No hard feelings?”

Nott shrugged elegantly, his dark grey wool robes high against his neck. He had on a black scarf as well, most likely the same material as the one Malfoy was wearing. Cashmere? Harry glanced at Malfoy’s scarf. Looked like it.

“No,” Nott said. “It’s just business. If I had not defended Langley, someone else would have. Millicent strong-armed the Bartletts into using our florist, however.” Nott turned slightly, his eyes casting about the crowd for his wife. “No hard feelings.”

“Are your kids here?” Harry asked.

“No, they’re with Millicent’s mother, thankfully.”

“Have you seen Astoria?” Malfoy asked him, and Nott shook his head.

“Come on,” Harry nudged Malfoy. “Let’s go look for our seats.”

They nodded at Nott, making their way further into the graveyard. It was small, and like Nott had indicated, filled with flowers. There were stands, wreaths, and pots filled with deep purples and reds, and, of course, lilies. There were white lilies everywhere, in between roses so red they were almost black, and they shone starkly against purple and brown dahlias. It was solemn, yes, but beautiful.

Harry and Malfoy found seats near the back, and Harry managed to spot Millicent in the crowd. She was talking with Hermione and Ron, a fur muff around her hands. Hermione’s hair was loose today, a curly halo around her head. Ron’s cheeks were red from the cold under his freckles, and he was nodding seriously to something Millicent was saying.

“There,” Malfoy said, turned back in his chair to look toward the graveyard gate. Harry looked as well, moving to stand as they saw Astoria and Goyle come up the path. Astoria was pale, too, but Harry knew it was from grief.

“Greg,” Malfoy said, going to greet them. “Astoria, darling.”

Behind them, Harry could see Astoria’s sister and parents.

“I’m alright, Draco, don’t fuss. You’ll start Gregory off again,” Astoria admonished, waving Malfoy away. Goyle looked nice in his dark robes, the beginnings of a mustache showing above his lip. It suited him.

“Hullo, Goyle, good to see you.”

“Likewise, Potter,” Goyle clapped hands with Harry. “Poor Frances Bartlett! She looks a wreck. Naturally, of course, but still.”

“I know,” Harry agreed, shaking his head. “I hate funerals.”

Goyle’s mouth twisted, and he nodded, agreeing.

“Yes, me too.”

“Harry!” Harry turned to find Ron coming up to him. “Bloody hell, mate, how’s it I haven’t seen you in ages and now it’s at a funeral, of all places?”

“Ron,” Harry said, hugging the other man. “Been busy. This case, you know?”

“Yeah,” said Ron, pulling back to look at him. “I do. ‘Mione told me all about it. Just tragic,” Ron leaned in. “Did you see Nott? His wife told us they did the flowers, said that Mrs Bartlett barely bat an eye. But it’s well done, I think.”

Harry nodded, patting Ron’s arm. What else was there to say? They were a small community, smaller still these days.

“Hermione’s got us sitting up at the front, with the Bartletts,” Ron said. “Where’re you lot?”

“Malfoy and I have seats in the back,” Harry shrugged. He didn’t want to speak to anyone he didn’t know.

Ron nodded, then tilted his head back toward the path.

“Better sit down, the Bartletts are coming.”

Harry went to collect Malfoy, going back to their seats. The Goyles went to sit at the front with Ron and Hermione. Mr Bartlett guided his wife into a chair near them. The crowd settled onto the rows of benches set on a patch of faded grass. They were facing a mausoleum, in front of which was a casket containing the body of Patricia Bartlett. It was open.

Once everyone had quieted, Mr Bartlett stood to address the mourners. Harry noted that there was a druid off to one side, as well as four women. They were all dressed in black, flowing robes. The druid was holding a staff in his hand, a trapping of his office, like a Muggle priest with a bible.

“Thank you all again for coming,” said Mr Bartlett. He cleared his throat, clasping his hands together roughly. “Our little girl is gone. But she is at peace.” He looked out over the crowd. “I won’t take up too much time, but I just wanted to say thank you. To everyone who’s come out today, to –” he faltered, his expression shuttering. His eyes were locked on the path by the graveyard gate. Harry turned in his seat, flicking his wand out of its holster on his arm.

But it was only Alicia Fawcett.

Fawcett closed the gate shut behind her, bowing to Mr Bartlett before she crossed the lawn and found a seat at the end of one of the rows. Mr Bartlett nodded back, clearing his throat again.

“To everyone who has come out to say goodbye with us. Everyone. Thank you.”

Harry pushed his wand back up into his sleeve before glancing over at Malfoy. His partner was frowning, watching Fawcett. If Harry thought about it, though, he wasn’t surprised she was here.

Fawcett had on dark grey robes, lined with black fur. The hat she was wearing looked as if it were made of nothing but augury feathers, and it had a similar veil to the one she’d worn the last day of the trial. Harry looked away.

The druid stepped forward, raising his staff into the air. The service was in Latin, and although Harry couldn’t understand a word of it, there was a kind of lilting chant to the way it was spoken that felt appropriate.

“We commend the immortal soul of Patricia Hebony Bartlett to Death,” the Druid intoned finally, in English. Harry felt a shiver run up his spine. “May He keep her in blesséd peace, so that she may dwell always in the Silence of the Aethereum. Let us rise, all of us, for the Keening.”

Those gathered stood up, and Harry shoved his hands in his pockets. He could feel Magic rising around the graveyard, and he clenched his teeth against it. It was Old Magic, and Harry could feel it pouring out from the ground, like fog, winding its way about their feet. It brought with it a smell of decaying leaves and freshly turned earth. Harry closed his eyes as he heard a raven caw somewhere in the distance.

The four women with the druid stepped forward, one of them carrying a small harp. Three of them formed a half circle around the fourth, and the one with the harp plucked it so a long, high note rang out through the air.

The fourth woman let out a high note, same as the harp, and all of the hair on Harry’s body rose in response. _Beannsidhe_. The note continued, dipping and rising, while two of the background women took up a low humming. The third continued playing the harp as the other three sang, keening for the deceased.

Eventually, they began to sing in a mix of Latin and what Harry guessed was Gaelic. Their voices, in chorus, rang out through the graveyard, and the Magic thrummed in response. The song was haunting, truly ethereal, and it echoed through every part of Harry. He heard Malfoy gasp beside him, but couldn’t bear to look away from the part-sidhe woman. He knew, though, that Malfoy was crying.

“ _Deus meus_ ,” the Banshee sang, and Harry’s eyes filled with tears. “ _Deus meus_.”

           

Patricia Bartlett was put to rest.

 

~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song that the banshees sing at the funeral is/inspired by [this recording](http://inkspottedtea.tumblr.com/post/158200453546/via-httpswwwyoutubecomwatchv-ycseo-p-pe) by Fionnuala Gill. Thank you to everyone who left kudos and comments. I appreciate you all so very, very much! ♥


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